Chuck vs the Fake Empire
by Notorious JMG
Summary: Chuck Bartowski rules the massive Woodcomb casino empire of an alternate L.A. But when the daughter of Woodcomb's vanquished rival comes to town looking for revenge, Chuck finds that he might not be on the right side. Guest starring Richard Castle.
1. Richard Castle's Fake Empire

_**Author's Note:**__ So this story is going to be a little bit of a departure for me. It's going to go back into the territory from whence my best stories have come – the completely alternate universe, informed by the show _Chuck_, but not restrained by it._

_This story will furthermore take place in an alternate Los Angeles from the one we know today. In this Los Angeles, the Sunset Strip of the 1920s – a rancid stretch of whorehouses, gambling halls, and speakeasies – evolved not into the two miles of trendy bars and nightclubs we know today, but rather into what really would have been a more logical progression – a strip of casinos similar to what we see in modern-day Las Vegas._

_Though this is undoubtedly a _Chuck _story, you will notice that characters from _Castle_ and _SouthLAnd_ – most notably Richard Castle – are present in the story. Consider it a crossover for that reason if you will; however, I do not, because as little as this story has to do with the canon of _Chuck _(one MAJOR exception aside), it has even less to do with the canon of the other two shows._

_Anyway, I hope you enjoy. If any part of this story confuses you, or you have questions, please feel to let me know. I plan to make available a map of the Sunset Strip of this story so that those of you familiar with Los Angeles have an idea of what's going on geographically._

_Finally… and this is the first time I've ever done this… if you like the story, won't you leave a review? Reviews, though certainly not the motivation for writing, are always gratifying for the author._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

><p><em>The following excerpt is the preface to Richard Castle's 2011 non-fiction novel, <em>**Fake Empire: The Battle of the Sunset Strip **(Simon & Schuster, New York. Available from Barnes & Noble or Borders for $29.95; Amazon for $26.95; Kindle edition for $17.95).

"Sunset Boulevard, twisting boulevard, secretive and rich, a little scary…  
>Sunset Boulevard, tempting boulevard, waiting there to swallow the unwary."<p>

When I was nineteen years old, struggling to find my footing in the great, dangerous world of mystery fiction novelists, I had occasion to have an accidental face-to-face encounter with Andrew Lloyd Webber. My mother, attempting to revive her flagging career following her ignominious departure from the soap opera _Falcon Crest_, had agreed to meet with Mr. Webber as he was developing his musical adaptation of the 1950 film _Sunset Boulevard_.

He had chosen to turn to my mother because, despite the untimely demise of her last character, she was nonetheless a well-known actress and a reasonably respected authority on Sunset Boulevard. Having moved to Los Angeles just after my birth in 1971, she had initially lived in a squalid little hovel – at least, that's what she calls it; I personally have no memory of it – but once her role on _Another World_ took off, she quickly moved into the Chateau Marmont – at the time, the cornerstone of the Burton casino empire on the Sunset Strip.

When I ran into Mr. Webber, he wanted my opinion on the nature of the Sunset Strip. I asked him why. "You're nineteen years old," he told me. "You lived in two different worlds – the world of high money, glitz, and glamour on the Sunset Strip – and an entirely different world, all of, what, half a mile away?"

It was a mile and a half, actually. A mile and a half from the Chateau Marmont to Fairfax High School – someplace where I was blessed with relative obscurity. My mother's name was QUITE well known throughout Hollywood by the time I was in high school, so I chose to adopt her mother's maiden name – Castle. There was no way that anybody would connect Richard Castle with Martha Rodgers, and that was the way I liked it.

So I told Mr. Webber what he wanted to know. I told him that off the strip, as long as I never, ever told anybody that my last name was Rodgers, I was fine. However, I couldn't set FOOT in a single casino on the Sunset Strip without being immediately recognized.

Now, unless you've been living under a rock, you know that the Sunset Strip is essentially what the Las Vegas Strip would be if it had any class. A collection of two dozen hotel-casinos, the oldest one built in 1927 and the newest – Woody Woodcomb's glittering abomination, the Viper – built in 2008, it fits to a T the description you find in the title song from Mr. Webber's musical. And up until just after my eighteenth birthday, in 1989, I was essentially royalty there.

What you have to understand is that from the early 1950s onward, the Sunset Strip was controlled largely by two families – the Woodcomb family and the Burton family. There were a couple of outliers here and there – Larry Flynt's bizarre little Hustler Casino at the west end of the strip, Richard Branson's Virgin Casino, and Howard Hughes' old Garden of Allah, which bounced from owner to owner after Hughes' death until Magic Johnson finally purchased it in 1993. But most of hotel-casinos on the strip belonged either to Terry Woodcomb or Mick Burton.

Terry Woodcomb and Mick Burton were a pair of gentlemen who genuinely liked one another. Their courtside tickets to the Lakers were right next to one another for years; they would travel to conventions together; they would often host large events on the strip as joint events. And they raised their sons – Terry's son Walter, who went by Woody, and Mick's son, Jack – right next to each other, intending for them to take over the Sunset Strip and continue running things as they had.

And the two young men did just that – or so it seemed. In 1985, Terry Woodcomb and Mick Burton held a joint press conference, announcing that they were retiring and turning control of their respective casino empires over to their sons. Jack Burton was more than content to continue running things the way his father had.

Woody Woodcomb, however, was an ambitious little bastard.

Okay, maybe that's an unfair assessment. But we'll get back to that in a moment.

In 1988, Woody Woodcomb started going after the Burton empire with a vengeance. Claims of sabotage, financial tampering, general mayhem started cropping up at the Burton casinos, but nothing could ever be proven. But the real killing blow to the Burton casino empire came in early 1989, when a fire at the old Empress Hotel – where the Standard is today – gutted the building, killing 34 guests. The Los Angeles Fire Department initially found an enormous amount of evidence of arson – but somehow, the evidence disappeared as quickly as it was discovered.

Jack Burton was essentially ruined. Forced to pay huge damages to the families of the guests who perished, he sold off almost the entire Burton empire, which Woody Woodcomb was more than happy to snatch up. The only hotel Jack Burton refused to sell was the Chateau – after all, that was the hotel which had given his father his start.

Jack Burton retreated to his cabin in Wyoming, allowing his company to run the hotel. My mother was all but blackballed, having been a vocal and public supporter of Jack Burton from the day his troubles began. And me? Well, I basically became _persona non grata_ on the strip. I couldn't go into a single casino on Sunset Boulevard without almost immediately being unceremoniously dumped on the street.

And people wondered why I moved to New York City for nearly twenty years.

The thing is, I guess Woody Woodcomb just didn't expect the events of the summer of 2010. I was able to serve as a first-hand observer to the events that transpired. In 2008, my wife, former New York Police detective Kate Beckett, had moved to Los Angeles, established residency, and promptly run for and been elected Los Angeles County Sheriff. I, obviously, had moved with her, and having established a tentative truce with Woody Woodcomb, took up residency in the Chateau Marmont once more.

I learned that much had changed in the time I was away. Woody Woodcomb's son, Devon, had expressed an utter disdain for the entire charade of the Sunset Strip, instead going to UCLA medical school, getting his MD, and joining Doctors Without Borders. Desperate for somebody to take over the empire, Woody had turned to Devon's brother-in-law, a young man by the name of Charles Bartowski.

In 2007, Charles – or Chuck, as he prefers to be called – became the chief operating officer for Woodcomb Hollywood Entertainment, Inc. He was basically placed in charge of Woody Woodcomb's thirteen hotel-casinos, and was being groomed to take over the empire when something extraordinary happened.

Now, I cannot truthfully say that there were any black and white good guys or bad guys in this entire story. Really, everybody – even my wife – was a certain shade of gray from front to back. However, one side clearly won the Battle of the Sunset Strip, and quite frankly, I'm glad that that side won.

However, none of it ever would have happened if it hadn't been for the arrival of a new face in town, on May 3rd, 2010. Yes, I remember that day very well. It was the day that the battle really began. It was the day that I got a new neighbor.

It was the day that Jack Burton's daughter came to town.

So, if you have a couple of hours to kill, I'd invite you to sit back and relax. Grab a good bottle of wine, maybe some popcorn. Yes, I know it's a book, but believe me when I tell you, the tale I'm about to impart to you is better than any movie. In fact, if I had known that writing non-fiction could be so salacious and satisfying, I never would have penned a word about Derek Storm.

And so, without any further ado, I present to you this tale… the tale of the Fake Empire.

Richard Castle  
>The Chateau Marmont<br>May 29th, 2011


	2. Chuck Gets No Respect

May 3rd, 2010.

When he looked back on it, years later, it was a day that Chuck Bartowski would never, COULD never forget. Of course, he had no idea that morning that it would be so special. It had started just like any other Monday morning – way too early.

The sun hadn't even begun to wrap its tendrils around the horizon when Chuck left his apartment in Echo Park that morning. Neither, however, was there a marine layer – something that Chuck found curious. It was dark, it was clear, and remarkably, it was quiet.

As with any other morning, Chuck was dressed in his usual uniform – white button down shirt, black tie, black Armani suit, and – of all things – a pocket protector. The entire outfit was a carry-over from his college days, when he had been employed as a Nerd Herder by the Buy More in Palo Alto. And sure, maybe Chuck's job didn't involve fixing the computers of technologically incompetent Californians anymore, but his degree WAS in computer programming – and besides, he liked the pocket protector.

Opening the driver's door of his white Prius (with, God help him, red and black trim), Chuck leaned into the cabin, setting his coffee in the center console cupholder, and then folded his six foot four inch frame into the hybrid. It was always a bit of a pain getting into the car, but once he was in it, it was plenty comfortable – and that was important the fourth Monday of every month, when Chuck had to drive up to Las Vegas and check on the operations of the Monte Carlo, Woody Woodcomb's lone casino outside of the great state of California.

Ah, Woody Woodcomb. The consummate pain in the ass. He was an arrogant bastard. He thought the sun and the moon and the entire state of California revolved around him – which, Chuck had to admit, the last of those three was, to a certain extent, very true. Governor Schwarzenegger was decidedly in Woody's back pocket – indeed, Woody had on more than one occasion bragged to Chuck that the two of them were among maybe a half dozen people who knew that the governor had an illegitimate child as the result of an affair back in 2001.

Chuck was going to believe that one when he saw proof.

Woody had, more than once, wondered out loud – and in front of influential people, which Chuck found embarrassing, obnoxious, and completely unnecessary – why Chuck would drive such a "pedestrian" car as a Prius, and for that matter, why he drove at all. "You're the chief operating officer of Woodcomb Hollywood Entertainment, for Christ's sake!" Woody had once exclaimed, as Phil Jackson and Pete Carroll had looked on in amusement. "You not only merit a better car, you get your own driver, too!"

Chuck knew better than to remind Woody that he was a card-carrying member of the Sierra Club and had worked as a union organizer when he was at Stanford – especially in front of other influential people. It would just lead to mockery, which was something Chuck could do without.

And so, he just soldiered on, with his $700,000 a year salary serving as more than an effective balm against the idiotic wit of his boss – especially since Chuck donated a solid third of that to the causes he believed in each year. And in spite of Chuck's charitable largesse, the fact that he drove a Prius and lived in his sister's old apartment in Echo Park, coupled with some very shrewd investments, had left him with a net worth of just over ten million dollars barely three years into his employment with Woodcomb Hollywood Entertainment.

Chuck thought that that was kind of cool.

However, one thing that Chuck did NOT think was particularly cool – especially at five o'clock in the morning – was what started happening almost as soon as he pulled off of Laveta Terrace, out onto Sunset Boulevard. For it was at that moment that his iPhone started spewing forth the _Dragnet _theme.

There was only one person in Chuck's entire contact list for whom that particular bell would toll. And the truly unfortunate fact of the matter was that there was only one reason for why that particular person would be calling him at that time of the morning.

Chuck reached up to his ear and pressed the button on his Bluetooth earpiece. "Hello, Sheriff," he sighed, for all the world sounding like a man with the weight of a thirteen hotel casino empire on his shoulders.

_Oh, wait_, he thought, _I AM_.

"_Oh, Chuck_," Kate Beckett deadpanned at the other end, "_you KNOW how much I love it when you call me that_."

In spite of himself, Chuck laughed softly at her response. Leave it to the Los Angeles County Sheriff to make a joke like that at five in the morning. "Please tell me he's not at it again," Chuck sighed, deciding it was best to get this phone call over with.

"_He's very much at it again_," the sheriff chuckled. "_Full garb and everything_."

"Jesus," Chuck groaned. "I swear to God, the day he found out he was part Chumash –"

"_Worst day of your life, I'm sure,_" Kate Beckett finished for him. "_What do you want me to do with him?_"

Chuck shook his head, looking blearily out at the empty boulevard in front of him. "Where is he?"

"_In front of the Viper, per his usual._"

"Blocking traffic or the entrance to the casino?"

"_Neither_."

"Just leave him alone, then. I'll deal with him when I get there." Chuck rubbed his forehead, trying to make the building headache go away. It was too early.

"_Not a problem, Chuck,_" she replied… but it was clear she had something else to say.

"What?"

Kate Beckett sighed. "_Chuck, why do you keep putting up with him?_"

Chuck laughed quietly. "Kate, let me ask you something. You and Rick have been together what, six, seven years?"

"_Seven, yeah._"

"And he's got some quirks, right?"

Now it was Kate's turn to laugh. "_Chuck, his quirks would make a Tourette's ward look like a Buddhist monastery._"

Chuck frowned. "Uh…"

"_Politically incorrect similes are my specialty, Chuck. I'm a cop in Los Angeles, what do you want from me?_"

Chuck laughed again, but decidedly louder this time. "Nice, Kate, nice," he replied. "Anyway, when somebody's been in your life long enough, you learn to put up with their inherent idiocy, right?"

"_HAH!_" Kate laughed at the other end. "_I suppose that's true. I guess you've known him for a long time, then?_"

"Since second, third grade, Kate," Chuck replied, his mind registering that he was getting closer as he crossed over Normandie.

"_Fair enough. Alright, I won't bother him unless he starts making a nuisance of himself._"

"He's always a nuisance, but I get your point," Chuck said. "See you in a few."

Fifteen minutes and a number of strategically aimed middle fingers later, Chuck's Prius silently glided to a stop in the driveway of the Viper Hotel and Casino at 8852 Sunset Boulevard, in West Hollywood. The valet came running up to the Prius, pulling open the door before Chuck's fingertips could even graze the door handle.

"Thanks, Lester," Chuck said, standing up out of the car and handing a five dollar bill to his former Buy More co-worker. Then he paused, looking down at Lester in confusion. "Wait a second… what are you doing here? You don't have the AM shift today…"

Then Chuck stopped. "Lester, where's Jeff?"

Lester sighed and rolled his eyes. "Where do you think he is, Chuck? Drunk in a dumpster somewhere."

"Lester… you're here, covering for him. If he was drunk in a dumpster somewhere, you would probably still be asleep."

Lester just shook his head. "Drunk in a dumpster behind Bennigan's. He's been there since about 3:00."

Chuck frowned and raised an eyebrow. "Does that mean you haven't been to sleep?"

"Sleep is for the weak, Charles."

"No, no way," Chuck shot back. "I am not having you drive around expensive cars that belong to people who could make us both disappear without so much as a second thought if you haven't slept since yesterday."

Lester looked up at Chuck. "And what would you propose I do?"

Chuck shrugged. "Skip will be here at 7:00. I'll cover the shift until then. If it gets busy, I'll drag guys over from a couple of the other hotels."

"Oh, come on!" Lester laughed. "You're the chief operating officer. You don't park cars."

"Believe me when I say, I am MORE than happy to get the hell out of my office and park expensive cars for a couple of hours," Chuck replied. "Besides which, it gives me the chance to avoid dealing with something."

Lester looked at Chuck, then looked out toward the street. "You talking about what I think you're talking about?"

"None other," Chuck said, heaving a huge sigh. "Now get out of here."

As Lester turned tail and skedaddled back toward the entrance to the casino, a silver Ford Crown Victoria pulled into the drive. "Well, I guess my problems are coming to me today," Chuck muttered to himself as the Crown Vic slowed to a stop in front of him.

Smiling ruefully, Chuck rounded the front of the Crown Vic and pulled open the driver's door. "Good morning, sheriff," he said, looking down at the occupant of the driver's seat.

"And good morning again, Charles," Kate Beckett said, standing up out of the car. As he always did when he saw her, Chuck had a momentary _if only she wasn't married to Rick Castle, that lucky bastard_ moment, moving past it quickly. "Avoiding your problems, are you?"

"No, taking care of them, actually," he responded. "My 5:00 AM valet is apparently drunk in the dumpster behind Bennigan's."

Kate frowned. "You only have one valet at 5:00 AM?"

"Five to seven," Chuck told her. "Slowest hours of the day for the Viper. Well, on a Monday morning, at any rate. 5:00 AM on Saturday, I'll have two or three guys on."

"Gotcha," Kate replied. "Well… how do you want to handle this situation?"

Chuck looked at her, then out at the street. "Um… you want to park cars for a few minutes?"

Kate snorted. "Come on, Chuck, I'm not one of your valets. Besides which, can't I get in trouble or something?"

Chuck rolled his eyes. "I'm sorry, I work for the most powerful man in Los Angeles, and you're the highest ranking law enforcement official. I think if there's any trouble, we MIGHT be able to find a way to overcome it."

"You know," Kate told him with a grin, "you're cute when you're corrupt."

"Oh, shut up," Chuck laughed, even though the word _corrupt_ stung more than he was willing to let on. "You gonna help me out, or am I just gonna leave him out there on the curb?"

"GO," Kate replied. "Just… could you see if you can get him to stop?"

"No promises!" Chuck called over his shoulder as he jogged down the driveway, back toward Sunset.

And, oh dear God, there he was. Standing on the sidewalk, dressed in what Chuck could only assume was supposed to be a psychedelic rendering of an outfit from a John Wayne movie, glowsticks dangling from his sleeves like fringe, and an actual electric street sign which kept flashing back and forth, "SHAME ON THE VIPER CASINO – AN INSULT TO THE CHUMASH PEOPLE."

Now, the fact was, Chuck could understand that particular sentiment. Excavation below the old Queen's Hall Casino, torn down to make way for the Viper, had revealed what appeared to be a fourteenth or fifteenth century Chumash settlement – including a burial ground. And furthermore, Chuck could even understand why this particular person was protesting – after all, it turned out that he was legitimately a quarter Chumash.

But still…

"Good morning, Morgan!" Chuck called out to him as he approached. "You realize that Kate's gonna bust you like a piñata if you don't take down that signboard, right?"

Morgan Grimes looked over at Chuck with a grin on his face. "Now, now, Chuck," he shot back, "quoting Sam Seaborn out of context – that's just bush league."

Chuck grinned in spite of himself as he approached his oldest friend. "I'm telling you that Sheriff Beckett is about five minutes from throwing your ass in the back of her car, and you're criticizing me on my _West Wing_ quotes?" he asked. "Come on, now…"

"Hmmm," Morgan mused. "Truthfully, I wouldn't mind being thrown in the back of Kate Beckett's car. Is she back there with me?"

"You're incorrigible," Chuck laughed. "And no, you're in handcuffs."

"Oh, it gets kinky," Morgan replied. "And don't tell me you wouldn't mind being in the back seat of a car with Kate Beckett."

"That's neither here nor there, Morgan," Chuck replied, trying to ignore the blush he could feel creeping up his neck. "The fact is, you may have finally given her ammunition to arrest you."

"Bring it!" Morgan shot back. "Sheriff Beckett isn't going to arrest an American Indian protesting the desecration of one of his ancestral villages!"

"Morgan," Chuck sighed, "you do realize that between the Chumash and the Kumeyaay, there are over nine thousand Native Americans in the Southland with a legitimate claim to being pissed off about this, but you're the only one out here… what?"

Morgan had started grinning at Chuck, and was clearly trying to fight down laughter. "I'm sorry, Chuck, how many was that again? Between the Chumash and the Kumeyaay, I mean?"

Chuck frowned. "I said it was over nine thou- oh, shut up," Chuck groaned, realizing where Morgan was going. "And thank you for proving my point. How many protesters do you suppose get distracted by an accidental _Dragonball Z_ reference?"

Somehow, though, while Chuck had been talking, Morgan's attention had wandered. "Morgan? Hello?"

"Vicki Vale, Chuck," Morgan whispered reverently, his eyes wide. "Vicki Vale!"

Chuck turned to look where Morgan was pointing, and saw a jet black Porsche 911 roaring down Sunset Boulevard, an exquisite looking blonde sitting behind the wheel. Barely decelerating, the 911 turned into the driveway of the Viper, barreling toward the entrance.

"Uh, excuse me," Chuck said. "I need to see –"

"Yeah, I'm right behind you," Morgan replied, his protest apparently forgotten in favor of finding out who the blonde in the Porsche was.

As the Porsche came to a stop in the driveway, Chuck saw Kate Beckett park herself by the driver's door, and he could tell just from her posture that she was pissed. "What the HELL was that all about?" she barked, as soon as the door opened.

The blonde woman stood up – and when Chuck realized she was actually taller than Kate, he came to a stop. She looked unreal – angelic, and yet amazonesque. "I'm pretty sure she could kick your ass and mine, dude," Morgan said from behind him.

"I'm sorry, since when does the valet criticize the driving of the casino's customers?" the blonde woman shot back at Kate – and with that, Chuck's mind kicked back into gear.

"Well, when the valet is the LOS ANGELES COUNTY SHERIFF –" Chuck reached the two women just as Kate dragged her badge off her belt and was preparing to shove it up the blonde woman's nose.

"Okay, okay now!" Chuck said, interceding. "Let's maintain calm, shall we?"

He turned to the blonde woman. "Nice car. Can I help you?"

"My name's Sarah Walker," she informed him, casting a frosty glare at Kate Beckett. "I'm looking for Charles Bartowski. Do you know where I can find him?"

Chuck's heart skipped a beat. This woman was looking for HIM?

"I, uh, I'm Chu – er, Charles Bartowski," he told her, his mouth suddenly dry. "How can, how can I help you?"

"Well done, Chuck," Morgan groaned softly. Stepping around Chuck, he extended his hand. "He's Chuck Bartowski, chief operating officer of Woodcomb Hollywood Entertainment. I'm Morgan Grimes, Chuck's best friend and video game consultant extraordinaire."

Sarah looked at Chuck and Morgan, the glare still on her face – but a clear hint of amusement in her eyes. "Your names are Chuck and Morgan?" she asked. "I didn't realize parents still named their kids Chuck. Or, well, Morgan, for that matter."

"Chuck's parents are sadists," Kate Beckett muttered. "And I'm pretty sure Morgan's were carnival freaks who found him in a dumpster somewhere."

"And they made me one of their own," Morgan declared proudly.

Chuck, on the other hand, didn't seem so amused. "You know," he said slowly, turning to look at Kate, "I can always contribute to the other guy when you run for re-election."

"Oh, Chuck," Kate replied, batting her eyes, "but then, who would you turn to when you get speeding tickets?" Then she paused, as if thinking. "Oh, wait, I forgot, you drive a Prius. It doesn't go fast enough for you to get speeding tickets."

Chuck looked at Kate incredulously, then turned back to look at Sarah Walker. "Miss Walker, I'm sorry," he said to her. "Apparently, even though I'm one of the most powerful men in Los Angeles, I wore my Rodney Dangerfield disguise today."

Sarah's forehead crinkled, a look of confusion crossing her face. "I'm sorry, your Rodney Dangerfield disguise?"

Chuck stared at her in disbelief. "Are you kidding?" he asked. "You know, 'I get no respect?'"

Morgan sighed. "Worst Dangerfield ever," he muttered.

"I'm sorry," Sarah said uncertainly. "Is this a bad time? I can come back later…"

"No, it's fine," Chuck replied. "As unbelievable as it may seem, this isn't even the most humiliating morning I've had in the last week. Not even by a long shot." He took a deep breath, and then smiled at her. "What can I do for you?"

"I need a job," she said.

Chuck sighed. Well, _that_ was disappointing. "I'm sorry," he said, trying not to let the disappointment enter his voice. "You're talking to the wrong person. You need to come back in a couple hours and talk to somebody in HR."

"Mr. Bartowski –"

"Please, call me Chuck."

"Mr. Bartowski," she persisted, "I'm very good at certain things."

THAT set off warning bells in Chuck's head. "Uh… what exactly do you mean?"

And then, something happened that made Chuck think he was in the Matrix. Without warning, Sarah Walker did a backflip, and then, as she was on the downswing from it, used her right foot to push off of her 911, sending her up and over Chuck. Grabbing Kate Beckett's right arm with her left arm, she slammed the sheriff into the hood of the Porsche, her own right arm whipping around Kate's waist and then out toward Chuck faster than Chuck could even react.

Before he knew it – "What the hell?" he asked in astonishment. He was handcuffed to Morgan, and Kate Beckett was face down on the hood of the Porsche, her own gun to her head. "Okay, that is not at ALL what I thought you meant," Chuck admitted.

Sarah Walker looked at him – and for the first time since arriving at the Viper, smiled. "Oh, I'm good at those things too," she said.

"Uh, okay," Chuck replied, his face getting hot very rapidly. "Um, well, I tell you what, if you uncuff me and Morgan and let Sheriff Beckett go, we can go upstairs and maybe talk about a job?"

"Sure," Sarah replied, setting the gun down on the hood of the Porsche and stepping away from it. "Sheriff, can you uncuff them?"

"I could arrest you," Kate growled, standing up and putting her gun back in its holster.

"Unlikely," Sarah replied. "And I apologize. That was just a demonstration for Mr. Bartowski –"

"Chuck, please."

Sarah stopped and looked at Chuck, the smile turning into a full-blown grin. "For Chuck's benefit," she conceded. "I have nothing but respect for the Los Angeles County Sheriff."

As Kate uncuffed Chuck and Morgan, Chuck looked at the blonde. "So, what job exactly did you have in mind?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I don't know. Is yours available?"

Chuck laughed. "Don't tempt me," he replied. "Don't tempt me."

* * *

><p><strong>CAST<strong>  
>Zachary Levi as Chuck Bartowski<br>Bruce Boxleitner as Woody Woodcomb  
>Stana Katic as Kate Beckett<br>Vik Sahay as Lester Patel  
>Joshua Gomez as Morgan Grimes<br>Yvonne Strahovski as Sarah Walker


	3. Mr Caffrey Will See You Now

Jennifer Burton couldn't really remember a time when she had been happy. In fact, her earliest memory was of her mother and father having a horrible, raging fight that had ended with her mother storming out and never coming back.

In the end, she supposed that it was probably the best thing for everybody involved. When a DNA test revealed that Jenny wasn't actually her father's daughter, that just sealed what they both already knew – her mother was a whore.

It didn't matter to either of them. He was a very powerful man, so he went through the necessary legal processes to adopt her. He loved her unconditionally, and was perhaps the only good part of her life.

She hated growing up on Sunset Boulevard. Hated growing up in the Chateau Marmont. Hated the fact that the only other kids her age were rich, snobbish little bastards.

But when she was nine years old, things only got worse. MUCH worse. That was when the Empress Hotel had burned. That was when thirty-four people had died, and her father became the most hated person in Los Angeles.

They ended up having to leave Los Angeles, and as much as Jenny had hated Sunset Boulevard, she hated living in a cabin in Wyoming and being home-schooled even more. The only contact she ever had with the outside world was when she and her father drove into Cheyenne for supplies.

At least he didn't get the looks in Cheyenne. The looks he had gotten in the last days before they left Los Angeles.

When Jenny was fourteen years old, her father had sent her to Portland, to live with his mother. She was enrolled in one of the public high schools there, but lasted barely a week before she got into a fight with somebody.

A behavioral therapist told Jack Burton that Jenny had years of repressed rage, and it would be very difficult for her to interact with other people if it wasn't in a highly structured environment.

It would be years before she found out he had done so, but upon hearing that news, Jack had tearfully said that he wasn't really surprised.

With that in mind, Jack Burton had, using some of the still sizable fortune he had remaining, sent his daughter to the Wentworth Military Academy in Lexington, Missouri. The very rigid structure turned out to be just what Jenny Burton needed, and six years after arriving at Wentworth, she departed with a 4.0 GPA, an associate's degree and a commission as a second lieutenant in the United States Army.

Despite high school and two years of college at a military academy, Jenny Burton still had a very defiant, rebellious streak within her. Six months into her time in the US Army, she had applied to Ranger School. Upon being summarily denied, she stormed into her commanding officer's office and asked why.

"You're a woman," she was told. "Women don't do combat. It's the law."

Lieutenant Jenny Burton, US Army, thought that was bullshit. And so, she had lawyered up. Two years and a remarkably close relationship with Gloria Steinem later, her case had been argued before the US Supreme Court, with her lawyers arguing that under the Fourteenth Amendment, it was unconstitutional for the US Army to bar Jenny from Ranger School.

To her absolutely dumbfounded amazement, the Supreme Court had agreed, with Justice Sandra Day O'Connor writing in the majority opinion that it was not the place of the military to impose archaic gender roles upon American society.

Jenny knew that Ranger School wouldn't be easy, and she expected a significantly greater degree of anger and resentment toward her due to the way she had gotten there. And so, she had taken the Army's old motto – "be all you can be" – to heart, and made being all she could be at Ranger School not just a mission, but a crusade.

She not only succeeded, but she succeeded like nobody – herself included – expected. Her grades coming out of Ranger School were among the best the US Army Special Forces Command had ever seen.

And so it was that when she completed the program in 2004, General Peter Schoomaker, the Chief of Staff of the US Army, personally came to her graduation, wanting to present a special commendation to the first female graduate of the US Army Ranger School. He did so – and then, in front of five hundred people, she handed General Schoomaker her resignation.

"I shouldn't have had to fight to be here, General," she told him angrily. "This is America. Women are just as much members of the human race as men, and you damn well know it."

So Lieutenant Jenny Burton was once again just Jenny Burton – but now, she was Jenny Burton, graduate of the US Army Ranger School, which made her a very dangerous person – and a very hot commodity. She had spent the next year beating off the CIA with a stick, at one point considering whether or not a restraining order against DD(O) Langston Graham would actually do anything for her.

For the moment, she had been content to go to George Mason University, where she had completed first her bachelor's degree in criminal justice, and then her master's degree in the same field. But in 2009, when she received her master's degree, an idea started to form.

At this point, she was not only trained as a US Army Ranger, but she knew exactly how criminals and law enforcement worked. And if that was the case…

Who said revenge was out of the question?

Oh, her father hadn't talked about it much, but Jenny knew. She knew that he was a broken man after what Woody Woodcomb had done to him. And she couldn't stand it. She couldn't stand the fact that her father, who she loved, who would have gone to hell and back for her, had been broken by an egomaniacal son of a bitch who just wanted control of the Sunset Strip.

And so, she began to plan…

* * *

><p>April 1st, 2010.<p>

New York City's Museum of Modern Art really needed better security.

At least, that was the opinion of the man robbing them just at that moment.

In broad daylight.

Bryce Larkin was about to steal Picasso's _Still Life With Guitar_ and replace it with an expertly made forgery. Or, rather, Bryce's art-thief alter ego, Neal Caffrey, was about to steal the piece of art. Either way, in a moment, the box under his arm would contain a priceless Picasso, and nobody would be the wiser, all because Neal Caffrey didn't actually exist, and nobody knew who the hell Bryce Larkin was.

Well, nobody but her.

"Shit," he groaned as he walked into the exhibition hall. "You're screwing up my life!"

"Well, I'm so sorry," Jenny Burton replied dryly as she walked toward him. "Because, you know, having my boyfriend leave me after deciding he was gay didn't screw up my life at all."

"Baby, I was born this way," Bryce shot back. "Not my fault."

Jenny shook her head. "Sounds like a bad pop song," she grumbled. "Here's the thing I don't get. How do you go from being an Army Ranger to being an art forger?"

"Gotta pay the bills somehow," Bryce replied. "I have found that being a gay man is ridiculously expensive."

Jenny smiled and looked at him. "Maybe I can fix that," she replied.

"What, the expensive part?" Bryce asked. "Because there ain't no fixin' the gay part."

"Yes, dumbass," Jenny said with a sigh. "I've got a job."

Bryce frowned at her. "A job?" he asked. "What do you mean, you have a job?"

Jenny shrugged. "I mean, I have a job for you that would have you walking away with anywhere between ten and fifteen million dollars."

THAT got Bryce's attention. "Uh… I'm definitely listening."

"Not here, you're not," Jenny replied. "Let's go somewhere else and talk."

* * *

><p>Jenny, not being from New York, let Bryce pick the "somewhere else" for them to go and talk, which turned out to be the Rock Center Café at Rockefeller Plaza. "Wow," she remarked as they walked through the door. "I knew I wanted to come to New York and pay twenty dollars for a cup of coffee. Thanks for reminding me!"<p>

Bryce shot her a look somewhere between humor and exasperation as he guided her to a table. "I think you might be exaggerating just slightly," he said. "On top of that, this is a good place for us to talk if you don't want anybody to notice us. And I assume you don't want anybody to notice us?"

"Well, not particularly," Jenny replied with a sigh as Bryce sat down at a table. "Thus why I wanted us to get away from the MoMA before you got caught with… what exactly is that thing, anyway?"

Bryce looked at Jenny in disbelief. "Uh, it's a forgery – an extremely good one, I might add – of Picasso's _Still Life with Guitar_. You can't tell me you've never seen it before."

Jenny looked at Bryce blankly and shook her head. "Sorry, Bryce," she replied. "My two worlds were the Sunset Strip and the military. There was sort of nothing in between."

"Yeah, I know," he sighed. "Which, before we go any further, begs a question – you said you're planning a job that could net us each ten to fifteen million dollars, right?"

"Right…"

"Fairly high profile, I assume?"

Jenny nodded. "Very high profile."

Bryce smiled and chuckled. "Oh, Jen. I gotta tell you. For as smart as you are, for as disciplined as you are, for the fact that you have a master's degree in criminal justice, you don't have a clue about being a criminal, do you?"

"I beg your pardon?" she asked in disbelief. "I'll have you know that my dissertation was a theoretical study on stealing an SR-71 Blackbird from the Udvar-Hazy annex of the National Air and Space Museum, a theoretical study which, by the way, was SO convincing that the Smithsonian actually brought me in to consult on improving the security at the annex!"

"I'm sure you did, and I'm sure you could probably steal the HMS _Resolute_ desk right out from under President Obama's nose," Bryce said soothingly. "But here's my point – are you planning on personally being involved with this job?"

"Of course I am," Jenny replied. "I plan on running point on this job."

"And there you go," Bryce said. "That's the problem. You don't think that between the fact that you're the daughter of the man who used to run half of the Sunset Strip and the fact that you were the VERY visible face of the gender integration of the US Army Rangers, you MIGHT be recognized?"

Jenny's face fell as soon as Bryce said she might be recognized. "Dammit," she sighed. "And of course, since you mention the Sunset Strip…"

She left the end of that sentence hanging in the air, like a dirty gym sock on a shower rod. Bryce stared at her for a moment, looking a little confused, and then his eyes widened. "Oh, no. No. No, no, no, no, no. Don't even think about it, I will leave right now. Just no."

"Oh, come on, Bryce, I haven't even told you –"

"You're going after Woody Woodcomb!"

Bryce's outburst caused a few people nearby to turn toward them. "Sorry," Bryce muttered, waving a hand.

"Would you shut up?" Jenny hissed. "I'd like this job to actually, you know, make it out the door of this café."

"And I think you're insane to even consider it," Bryce shot back. "You're not George Clooney, and this isn't a movie."

"I'm not trying to rob him blind," Jenny said. "I just want to make a statement and give my dad a little of his dignity back."

"Lack of ambition, not trying to rob him blind," Bryce replied, his reversal of position so abrupt as to almost give Jenny whiplash.

"Excuse me?" she asked incredulously. "You just told me I'm insane to even consider it, but then when I say that I'm not trying to rob him blind, you tell me that I'm not being ambitious enough? Would you make up your damn mind here?"

Bryce shrugged. "I DO think you're insane to try it," he told her. "But here's the thing. If you're set on doing this – and it feels like you are – you need to go big or go home. I'm not even kidding. You have to completely crush Woody Woodcomb, because if you don't, he will find out who you are, and he will turn you into library paste."

Jenny took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She looked at Bryce for a moment, then quietly looked at the ceiling. Finally, she said, "So what do you suggest I do?"

"What was your plan?"

"I wanted to take down one of his vaults," Jenny replied. "I wanted to take down the vault that services the Viper, the Trocadero, and the Sunset Grand."

Bryce nodded. "Logical," he said. "How many vaults total does Woodcomb have?"

"Three," she answered. "That one, one for the Melrose, the Richter, and the Cienega, and one for the five he owns on the north side of Sunset Boulevard."

"Okay, and how many people were you going to use?"

"Two. You and me."

"This plan is sounding stupider and stupider." Bryce smiled and shook his head. "Are you kidding me? Two people?"

"I've got it all worked out," Jenny insisted. "Sunset Strip vaults don't have anywhere NEAR the level of security or protection that Vegas vaults do. They also don't hold nearly as much cash in reserve. Thirty million for three casinos is pretty much the standard."

Bryce nodded slowly. "Alright, so let's say I trust your plan for a moment. Two people for one vault. If we do all three vaults, that means we need six people –"

"Six people I trust, including you and me."

"I think we can probably do that," Bryce replied. "Six people. Two per vault. We change your appearance – you go from brunette to blonde, we give you some blue contacts, cover up your green eyes, fix the gap between your top front teeth –"

"I thought you liked the gap between my top front teeth!"

Bryce grinned. "I love the gap between your top front teeth! But it's too recognizable. We do enough, though…"

He sighed and looked at the ceiling. "I don't know. It might just be stupid enough to work. Here's my big question, though – what did you plan for your point of entry to be?"

Jenny frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, how do you plan to gain access to the casinos? You have to have some sort of way in."

"Oh, right," she replied. "Well, I plan to get a job working for the chief operating officer of Woodcomb Hollywood Entertainment."

Bryce smiled and looked down at the table, trying not to laugh. "Do you now."

"Hey, I've done pretty thorough background on him," Jenny told him. "The guy's a dork. I figure, a few _Matrix_ style moves, and that should be enough to thoroughly impress him." She sighed. "And, I guess, if I have to, I break out the big guns."

"I hope to God that by big guns you don't mean –"

"That's exactly what I mean," Jenny replied sourly. "Yeah, it's not exactly what I want to do, but if he fits the computer geek profile that I think he does, I'm pretty sure that that which God gave me should be sufficient to melt his brain."

"Fair enough," Bryce said. "So, tell me a little about this guy."

"Well, his name is Charles Irving Bartow-"

"Yeah, I'm gonna stop you RIGHT there," Bryce interrupted her, his face losing a little bit of its color. "Charles Irving Bartowski, you say?"

"Yeah…"

"Stanford, class of 2003?"

Jenny frowned. "Do you know this guy?"

Bryce nodded. "Well, he was sort of my roommate at Stanford for three years."

Jenny sighed and leaned back in her chair. "Well, that might complicate matters a little."

"Are you kidding?" Bryce laughed in disbelief. "Jenny, let me tell you something. Chuck Bartowski is probably the smartest guy I've ever known. He doesn't just COMPLICATE matters. This is a whole new ball game!"

* * *

><p>Jennifer Burton (Sarah Walker) – Yvonne Strahovski<br>Jack Burton – Gary Cole  
>Bryce Larkin – Matt Bomer<p>

**_Author's note:_**_ for those of you unfamiliar with the name, Neal Caffrey is Matt Bomer's character on the USA show _White Collar.


	4. Dinner with Mom and Dad

April 5th, 2010.

"So, Las Vegas."

"Vegas?"

"Las Vegas. Sin City. Our future playground."

Chuck Bartowski frowned. "Sir, I'm not sure I understand," he said. "Why Vegas?"

Woody Woodcomb leaned across his desk, looking straight into his chief operating officer's eyes. "Mr. Bartowski, Las Vegas is the future. The Sunset Strip is a thing of the past." He smiled. "Besides which, you're already up there once a month anyway; this is just going to be some additional business you do while you're at the Monte Carlo."

"Respectfully, sir, I don't think the Sunset Strip is the past," Chuck replied. "Our casinos are making more money than they ever have before, the Viper was just given a five-diamond rating by AAA, and when the new light rail line down La Cienega Boulevard is finished, that gives the Strip a direct, fifteen minute link to LAX."

Woody leaned back in his chair, shrugged, and nodded. "All that is very true," he allowed. "Nonetheless, we've got an opportunity here that I don't want to squander. The Cosmopolitan could well become the new crown jewel of the Woodcomb empire."

Woody stopped, and then frowned. "Not that it'll ever matter as long as Jack Burton's still got a presence on Sunset," he muttered.

It was all Chuck could do to not roll his eyes. "Sir, again, I say this with all due respect, but Jack Burton's been gone for twenty-one years. He is no longer a player in Los Angeles."

"He's still got the Chateau!" Woody snapped. "I have to drive past that place every day, and it's a reminder that he's still out there, lurking, just waiting for me to slip!"

Chuck wasn't about to get into it with Woody Woodcomb. Not on this topic. The man was obsessed with the idea that Jack Burton was waiting around every dark corner, even though most believed that Burton hadn't left Wyoming since the early days of the Clinton presidency.

"Anyway," Chuck said, trying to guide the conversation back to where it had started, "you want me to meet with this potential investor when I go up to the Monte Carlo later this month."

"Yeah," Woody said, now seeming a little distracted. "I'll have Rick put together some information on the guy and you can look it over, so that when you meet with him, you'll have some idea of what's going on.

"Now, on to other business," Woody said, looking up at Chuck with a look of amusement on his face, "I understand we have a new… how shall I put this… entertainment attraction out on the sidewalk?"

Chuck heaved a sigh. "Yes, sir, yes we do. As I'm sure you're aware, this building was constructed on what appeared to be a Chumash settlement and burial ground, and that has the Chumash and Kumeyaay people of southern California rather upset."

Woody frowned. "I thought we appeased them by turning the entire lobby into a Chumash cultural exhibit."

"By and large, sir, yes we did," Chuck replied. "However… this individual is a little special."

"How so?"

Chuck shook his head. "Sir, Morgan Guillermo Grimes only very recently found out that he is a quarter Chumash. He's the type of individual who, once he sinks his teeth into something, doesn't let go."

"Australian sheep dogs do the same thing," Woody mused. "They have to be shot and their jaws pried open."

Chuck raised an eyebrow at his boss's curious non sequitur, but continued. "The fact of the matter is, sir, he's harmless, and we haven't seen a noticeable loss of traffic or business as a result of his presence."

Woody nodded. "That, and you know him, right?"

Chuck paused for a moment, and then nodded his head. "Yes, sir. We've been friends since we were about eight years old."

"Then you're the perfect person to get rid of him."

"Sir…" Chuck squirmed a little bit. "I'm not sure I feel comfortable exploiting my friendship with somebody in order to abridge his first amendment rights."

"I don't care," Woody replied, an annoyed look crossing his face. "I don't want the Barnum and Bailey Circus on the sidewalk in front of my casino. Get rid of him, or get Kate Beckett in here to take care of it. Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir, quite clear."

* * *

><p>Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department car 6A43 rolled down Sunset Boulevard, about one mile per hour over the speed limit. As always, Sergeant John Cooper and his partner, Officer Ben Sherman, kept an eye out for trouble – something which was in no short supply here on the Sunset Strip.<p>

This particular Monday morning, though – the day after Easter – had been relatively quiet so far. There had been a couple of drunk and disorderlies, but that certainly wasn't anything out of the ordinary – not for the Strip.

Sherman was absently staring at the tail end of the BMW 728 in front of them when Cooper spoke up. "What the hell is this freak show?" he asked, slowing the Crown Victoria, turning on the lights and bringing the car around in a circle. Ben Sherman looked toward the curb as the Crown Vic came to a stop in front of the Viper Casino, and felt a smile begin to spread across his face at the sight.

Morgan Grimes – somebody with whom Ben had gone to high school, but who he didn't know very well – stood on the curb, dressed in a Native American's outfit lifted directly from the deepest, scariest recesses of John Ford's mind. A red and black leather vest, complete with hot pink fringe was the only thing on Morgan's upper body – and indeed, it made an interesting pairing with the Lakers warm-up pants Morgan was wearing.

"Good afternoon, sir!" John called to Morgan as he got out of the car. "What exactly is going on here?"

"I'm a Chumash Indian, and this… monstrosity… is a disgrace," Morgan replied. "I'm exercising my First Amendment right to openly protest the Viper and its snake of an owner."

Cooper smiled. "I like what you did there, with the word play," he snarked. "The Viper and its snake. You got Aaron Sorkin writing your life for you?"

"Oh, if only," Morgan sighed. "Then I'd be in the lobby of the White House protesting, instead of here."

Ben shook his head and smiled. "Morgan, you realize you're distracting drivers, right?" he asked.

"Hey, Ben, look, they don't have to stare at me as they drive past," Morgan replied. "I'm just trying to make a point."

"Mr. Grimes," Cooper grumbled, "this is Los Angeles, the city of rubberneckers. People are going to stare as they drive past. It's a fact of life."

Morgan took a step toward Cooper. "Look, Sergeant, I don't care! I have every right to be here!"

"Mr. Grimes, watch your tone –"

"Hey, hey hey hey!" The voice of Chuck Bartowski rang out across the driveway of the Viper as he came jogging out toward the street. "Sergeant Cooper, he's fine. I've got this."

Ben Sherman looked over to see another of his high school classmates – this one _slightly_ more successful – approaching them. "Hey, Chuck, how's it goin'?" he called out.

"Insane, Ben," Chuck replied with a sigh. "You don't even want to know."

"Mr. Bartowski," Cooper said to Chuck, "since Mr. Grimes is in front of your casino, I'm going to leave it to you whether or not you want us to clear him out of here. However, if he's going to stay, he needs to not distract drivers. Is that clear?"

Chuck sighed. "I'll do what I can."

* * *

><p>Chuck sat in his office trying to put the Morgan situation from his mind. That was the last thing he needed right now, especially with the two files on his desk.<p>

The file on Chuck's left was the file on this investor that Woody wanted to work with. This investor was a pretty serious guy, not somebody who Chuck would normally associate with in real life. However, he definitely had the money that Woody needed.

The Cosmopolitan Hotel in Las Vegas was ALMOST done and ready to open, after years of what had apparently been hellish development and construction. About two months prior, Wells Fargo had foreclosed on the property after the development group went under, but in the interest of turning the property around and selling it as quickly as possible, the bank had permitted work on the building to go on.

Realistically, once the Cosmopolitan was open, it was going to be one of the nicest hotels in Las Vegas – up there with the Wynn and Encore. It would easily recoup in the first year just about every dime that Woodcomb Hollywood Entertainment spent on it.

However, when Woody decided to put forth his bid, he ran into a snag. There was a contract in principle for the Cosmopolitan to be a J.W. Marriott franchise, but Marriott wanted a second stakeholder in the property aside from Woodcomb – apparently, the Starwood disaster at the Wigwam Resort in Phoenix the prior year had put every hotel management company out there on edge.

That was all in the file on Chuck's _right_. Left – investor, right – hotel. And he needed to know all that he could about both.

He was about to re-open the file on the hotel when his phone rang. The theme from the original _Star Trek_ series filled Chuck's office – definitely his father calling.

Picking up the iPhone, Chuck hit the answer button. "Hey, Dad," he said. "What's up?"

"_Good afternoon, Charles_," his father said. "_Just wanted to make sure you were still coming to dinner tonight._"

Chuck snorted. "Of course am I, Dad. Mom would have my head if I didn't."

"_Right, right_," Stephen Bartowski replied. "_Anyway, I need you to pick something up for me on the way home. I'll call over, make sure it's ready for you to just pick up._"

"Sure, Dad. What are we talking about?"

"_I'm going to have a quad-core Intel board put on hold over at the Buy More. I blew one, and I need to replace it._"

Chuck sighed, and he felt like his whole body sagged. "Super," he groaned. "I absolutely wanted to go to the Buy More today."

"_Charles, I really need to replace this board today, but I don't have the time to get over there myself_."

"Alright," Chuck said, rolling his eyes. "I'll make sure to get it for you."

* * *

><p>By the time Chuck pulled into the parking lot of the Empire Plaza shopping center in Burbank, it was pouring rain. He knew that Morgan had long since abandoned the protest in favor of not being soaked to the bone.<p>

For some reason, the parking lot in front of the Buy More was packed, meaning that Chuck had to park all the way over by the greasiest place on Earth – better known as the Wienerlicious. Chuck had no particular problems with the Wienerlicious – in fact, when he was in high school, he and Morgan had gone there more than once less to eat and more to stare at hot girls in Bavarian beerwench outfits handling hot dogs.

"Oh, adolescence," Chuck muttered as he popped open his umbrella. Standing up out of the Prius, he pushed the door shut and stepped forward – right into a puddle.

Chuck sighed. "Dammit, Dad, I really didn't want to be here."

Two minutes later, Chuck stepped through the doors into the Buy More, shaking his umbrella out and pulling it shut. Looking around, he made sure that the manager was nowhere in sight, and made a beeline for the Nerd Herd counter.

"Well, hello there, sexy!" he heard a voice brightly exclaim.

Chuck laughed. "Anna, watch who you're calling sexy," he teased. "After all, I'm pretty sure you're my best friend's girlfriend."

Anna Wu nodded. "True, but still."

"Anyway, my dad called and had a motherboard put on hold," Chuck explained. "I'd kind of like to pick it up and get out of here before I have to deal with Em-"

"Mr. Bartowski!"

"Crap." Chuck turned around to face a man he couldn't stand. Chuck might've been the chief operating officer of a casino empire, but interaction with Emmett Milbarge still made him cringe.

"Hello, Emmett," Chuck sighed. "How are you today?"

"I'd be better if you weren't distracting my employees, Mr. Bartowski," Emmett said, a sour look on his face. "You might be a hotshot in Hollywood, but that doesn't mean you can come in here and mess with my staff's productivity."

"Emmett, I'm here as a legitimate customer," Chuck replied, as Anna placed his father's box on the Nerd Herd desk. "I just need to pick up a motherboard my dad bought."

Emmett shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Your father goes through more motherboards than an entire university," he snarked. "I swear, he single-handedly keeps Roark Industries in business."

Privately, Chuck agreed with Emmett. He had no idea why his father needed so much in terms of computer components – but he wasn't about to tell Emmett that.

"I don't know, Emmett," Chuck replied. "All I know is that he's smart enough to need motherboards. You know, it's better than being his age and managing a Buy More."

Emmett's eyes went wide, and his face began to turn purple. "Excus… I'll have you… just make your purchase and get out!"

The Buy More manager stormed away, leaving Chuck and Anna behind. "Chuck, if you just sign this invoice, I can get you the heck out of here," Anna told him.

"With pleasure," Chuck muttered.

* * *

><p>"So, Chuck, how's work?" his father asked.<p>

Chuck didn't reply at first. He was too busy shoveling fettuccini alfredo into his mouth. His mother made Italian food that would've put a Florentine chef to shame, and given that Chuck spent most of his week eating either fast food or something ordered from the Viper's room service, it was nice to have a REALLY good home-cooked meal once a week.

"Chuck?" his mother asked.

"Hmmm?" Chuck looked up to see both of his parents looking at him. "Sorry," he mumbled through a mouthful of noodles and chicken. Swallowing, he picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth. "I'm just really hungry, that's all.

"Anyway," he continued. "Work is interesting. First of all, you know Morgan found out that he's a quarter Chumash, right?"

"I heard," Mary Bartowski replied. "Let me guess, he's decided that he wants to protest the Viper?"

"Right in one," Chuck said. "Woody's not real pleased about it, but the L.A. County Sheriff isn't going to touch Morgan – Kate Beckett and Ben Sherman aren't going to mess with him without my say-so. I'm just mildly worried about John Cooper."

Stephen Bartowski snorted. "Chuck, John Cooper's a good soldier. He isn't going to lift a finger without Kate Beckett's explicit permission, and if you don't give it to her, she's not going to give it to him."

"Fair enough," Chuck said. "But that's far from the biggest thing going on. THAT particular honor belongs to a new business venture that Woody has asked me to spearhead. There's an almost-completed casino in Las Vegas called the Cosmopolitan that he wants to bring into Woodcomb Hollywood Entertainment, and he's got me spear-heading it."

"More expansion in Las Vegas?" Mary asked. "He's already got thirteen casinos here in L.A. What does he need with a second casino in Vegas?"

Chuck shook his head. "I don't know. As it is, it's supposed to be a J.W. Marriott franchise, and Marriott told him he had to get a second investor, which means I get to go meet with the guy at the end of the month. He's apparently a high roller – weird name, too. Like Vollmer, or Volkswagen, or something off the wall like that."

Chuck had by now returned his attention to the plate of food in front of him, and didn't see that his parents had both gone very still, with nervous looks on their faces. "Charles…" Stephen finally said.

"Yeah?" Chuck asked.

"Why don't you remember his name?" he asked. "You usually remember everything."

Chuck shook his head. "Like I said, it was an obscure name, and today was just a really weird and busy…" He finally looked up, and saw his parents' faces. "What?"

Mary looked straight at Chuck. "Charles, do you remember what industry this investor comes from?"

Chuck frowned and thought for a minute. "Uh, he's a specialized arms manufacturer from, I think, Russia. Yeah, I'm pretty sure it's Russia."

Mary sighed. "Chuck… I need you to think for a moment. Was this man's name Alexei Volkoff?"

"Yeah!" Chuck's face brightened. "Yeah, that's exactly what it was. How'd you know that?"

Stephen and Mary both looked at Chuck, then at one another, and then Stephen looked back at Chuck and sighed. "Oh boy."

* * *

><p><strong>CAST<br>**Woody Woodcomb – Bruce Boxleitner  
>Chuck Bartowski – Zachary Levi<br>John Cooper – Michael Cudlitz  
>Ben Sherman – Ben McKenzie<br>Morgan Grimes – Joshua Gomez  
>Stephen Bartowski – Scott Bakula<br>Anna Wu – Julia Ling  
>Emmett Milbarge – Tony Hale<br>Mary Bartowski – Linda Hamilton


	5. Bearding the Lion in His Lair

_**Author's Note**__: Shout-out to Moonlight Pilot, the Chuck Bartowski Awesome Award winner for Best Story, _Walker's Eleven_!_

* * *

><p>April 5, 2010.<p>

Mary Bartowski looked across the dinner table at her son, less than thrilled about what she was pretty sure he was about to say. "Chuck, I need you to think for a moment," she sighed. "Was this man's name Alexei Volkoff?"

And the light bulb went on over his head. _Dammit._

"Yeah! Yeah, that's exactly what it was," Chuck replied. "How'd you know that?"

Mary turned and looked at her husband, whose face bore the look of somebody who knows his king is clearly in checkmate. He turned back and looked at their son with a sigh. "Oh boy."

Chuck frowned. "Oh boy what? Dad, you only say that when something has gone seriously wrong."

"Son, your mother and I have something we need to tell you," Stephen Bartowski replied.

"Well, several somethings," Mary corrected him.

Chuck got a confused look on his face. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, Charles, that your mother and I work for the CIA," Stephen said. "We have for… well, nearly thirty-five years."

Chuck scoffed, a grin growing across his face. "The CIA, Dad?" he asked. "Come on, give me a break."

"He's not joking, Chuck," Mary said, a deadly serious look on her face. "We're CIA operatives."

Chuck's smile faded as he looked at his father, and then his mother. "He's not joking?" he asked. "Oh, God, you're not joking."

Stephen shook his head. "We should have told you long ago, Charles."

Chuck shook his head, clearly not believing what he was hearing. "So, when Ellie and I were growing up, all those alternating business trips the two of you had to take –"

"Were actually missions," Mary completed his sentence for him. "We're semi-retired now, so we don't go out in the field very much, but we still do a lot of analysis for the agency."

Chuck looked from his mother to his father, and then down at the table. "Wow," he said after a moment. "That is… that's a lot to take in."

Then he looked back up at them, clearly confused. "I don't understand, though, what that has to do with Alexei Volkoff."

Neither of his parents said anything for a moment. Then, without a word, Stephen stood, pulled his car keys out of his pocket, aimed the keyless entry remote at the fireplace, and pressed two buttons at the same time –

And the hearth slid silently aside, revealing a staircase leading below the house.

Chuck's eyes widened and his mouth dropped far enough to kick a soccer ball through. "Oh… my… God…" he finally uttered. As he turned to look at his father, his eyes lit up. "You… have a FREAKIN' SECRET LAIR under the house."

Stephen Bartowski couldn't keep from smiling, in spite of himself. "Yes, son, I most certainly do," he replied, his smile turning into a full-blown grin.

Mary rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Men," she sighed, walking around the dining room table and heading toward the staircase. When she reached the fireplace, she turned back toward Chuck and Stephen. "Chuck, if you want answers, they're downstairs. Are you coming?"

"Oh, hell yes," Chuck said, jumping up from the table and following his mother.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, the lights turned on – and then more lights turned on, and then yet more further away, and still more after that –

"Good Lord!" Chuck exclaimed. "How big IS this lair?"

"Reaches all the way to the Reseda High School property line," his father replied.

Chuck turned to look at Stephen, his eyes wide again. "Dad, Reseda High is two city blocks away!"

Stephen didn't say anything, but just grinned and nodded.

"I don't understand," Chuck said. "How the hell is this possible?"

"During World War II, there was a German POW camp in this part of Encino," Mary explained. "The US Army Corps of Engineers built a very large bunker beneath the camp where they could imprison and interrogate particularly valuable or troublesome POWs. After the war ended, they decommissioned the bunker; however, the government kept ownership of one house which could be used to access the bunker. After your father and I got married, the government sent us to live here, because your father had already been working as a researcher and analyst for them for a couple of years and they very much wanted him to continue his work."

"Everything you see down here is the result of nearly four decades of research, analysis, and operations conducted by myself and your mother," Stephen continued. He grinned and winked at his son. "Pretty damn impressive, huh?"

"I'll say," Chuck breathed. "So, what exactly is down here?"

"Well," Mary said, "we keep the most recent and active cases here at the front, so…"

She went two rows of shelves down an aisle and began to look. "Agent X… Agent X… Agent X!" she proclaimed triumphantly, re-emerging with the file. "Take a look, Charles, and then forget you ever saw it."

Looking nervously at the red "TOP SECRET – CODE WORD CLEARANCE ONLY" tape on the folder, Chuck took it from his mother and opened it. "Agent X," he read. "Hartley Winterbottom, born 31 August 1950, Somerset, England; graduated Cambridge 1971; commissioned MI-6 agent 1973; undercover as Agent X 21 November 1980."

He looked at the picture of the young British agent stapled to the cover sheet, and then up at his parents. "I'm not sure I get it," he said. "What does this have to do with Alexei Volkoff?"

"Alexei Volkoff is Agent X," Stephen replied, his mood now somber. "He **was** Hartley Winterbottom, but underwent a... well, I guess a reprogramming that turned him into somebody we placed undercover in the Soviet government."

Chuck looked at his father in disbelief. "You have got to be kidding me, he muttered, looking back down at the file. He flipped to the next page –

"HOLY CRAP," Chuck uttered. "This guy became Gorbachev's Defense Minister?"

"Last Defense Minister of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics," Mary said. "Unfortunately, it wasn't of any use to us."

Chuck frowned. "Why not?"

"We didn't predict that the reprogramming would completely sublimate Hartley's personality," Stephen explained. "Within less than six months, his personality was completely gone – he was entirely Alexei Volkoff, and had no memory of ever being an MI-6 agent."

"Oh my God," Chuck said, suddenly feeling nauseous. "Are you telling me that Joss Whedon's _Dollhouse_ technology actually EXISTS?"

"Well, not as such," Stephen replied. "First of all, you have to have a certain type of mental capacity in order to undergo the sort of programming. You have to be able to retain an enormous amount of subliminal information in order for the Intersect to program your mind –"

"Wait, stop," Chuck interrupted his father. "First of all, an enormous amount of subliminal information, like as in the class that Dr. Fleming taught at Stanford?"

Stephen sighed and looked at the ground. "Charles, Miles Fleming is a CIA recruiter, and you were at the top of his list for this proj-"

"WHAT?"

"I'm sorry, Charles, but I made him take you off," Stephen said firmly. "You weren't made for being in the CIA."

"Oh, great, thanks for letting me figure that out on my own, Dad," Chuck said sarcastically. "I could've been James Bond, but instead, I'm running Woody Woodcomb's casinos."

"Which is a MUCH safer career path for you, Chuck," his mother interjected, trying to calm him down.

"Fine," Chuck sighed. "Whatever. We'll talk about it another time, I'm sure. Getting back to the topic at hand, what exactly is an Intersect?"

"That's the computer that we use to program somebody," Stephen answered. "The first one was pretty rudimentary. I tried to use it to reverse Hartley's programming, but that burned it out. I've tried to build successively more powerful ones, but unfortunately, in order to undo the programming, I have to first build a working Intersect computer."

"And you've spent thirty years trying to do that?" Chuck asked incredulously.

Stephen smiled uneasily. "Why do you think I've gone through so many motherboards?"

* * *

><p>"Explain to me again why, after we agreed we need six people, and there's already two of us, you're bringing in five more? By my math, that makes seven."<p>

Bryce Larkin looked at Jenny Burton with a patient smile as they drove down Las Vegas Boulevard. "Would you prefer I have brought in a solid nine? Make it _Walker's Eleven_?"

"Ha ha, asshole," Jenny grumped. First of all, she didn't like Bryce calling her by her cover name – even though she was going to have to get used to it. Langston Graham had tried to bring her into the CIA years before by offering her the cover "Sarah Walker", and now she was using it, but the name sounded absolutely foreign coming out of Bryce's mouth.

Secondly, as he had oh-so-kindly reminded her in New York City, she was not George Clooney, and this was not the movies, so the _Ocean's Eleven _comparisons were getting a little old. "Besides which, we're doing this in Los Angeles, not Vegas, jerk."

"Yes, but we're IN Vegas right now, are we not?"

"Whatever," Jenny replied with a pout. "You're avoiding my question. Why do we need seven people?"

"One of the five I'm bringing in is a demolitions expert," Bryce answered. "He will solely be working on blowing stuff up, and won't be involved with robbing any of the three vaults."

"I'm sorry, BLOWING STUFF UP?"

"You know, power transformers, vault locks, that kind of thing?" Bryce asked. "For God's sake, Jenny, I'm not advocating we turn this into _Kosovo II: Electric Bugaloo_! We just need a demo expert for technical stuff."

"Alright, alright, fine," she replied as Bryce turned onto the Rue de Monte Carlo. Jenny looked up at the imposing building they were approaching and smiled. "You do have a twisted sense of humor, don't you?"

Bryce grinned. "Hey, I figure, if we're gonna rob Woody Woodcomb, why not meet to plan it in his own hotel?"

* * *

><p>A few minutes later, Bryce had turned the rental car over to the valet, and he and Jenny had ascended to the sixteenth floor of the Monte Carlo. As they stepped out of the elevator, both of the former Army Rangers unconsciously checked their surroundings, their highly-trained minds searching for any tactical advantage the corridor of the upscale hotel-casino could offer.<p>

Of course, in reality, there were no threats to be offered by the hallway – only yards of identical deep-pile carpet and wallpaper in either direction. Jenny followed Bryce down the hall to Room 1641, where he inserted a key card into the door and swung it open –

And they were promptly greeted by three large handguns.

Instinctively, Jenny reached for the sidearm she had been trained to carry as a Ranger – but it wasn't there. In fact, it had been nearly six years since she had carried a sidearm.

Bryce, on the other hand, seemed rather calm. "Alright, Carina, could you and your bitches put your guns down?"

"Ha ha, Bryce, very funny," the tall redhead in the middle said, lowering her gun. "They're C.A.T.s, not bitches, asshole."

"Wow, called asshole twice in fifteen minutes, that's new," Bryce deadpanned as he strolled into the room. "Jenny, this is Carina Miller, Zondra Cage, Amy Lidell. They compose the Covert Actions and Tactics, or C.A.T., Squad."

"And I am Carina's boyfriend!" a very cultured sounding British voice called out.

"And he is Carina's boyfriend," Bryce mocked the Brit, sighing. "That would be Cole Barker, disgraced Special Air Service trooper, and expert at blowing shit up."

Jenny looked at the British demolitions expert, and then back at Bryce. "I swear to God, Bryce, if you tell me that you brought him on because you couldn't get your kitten squad –"

"C.A.T. Squad," Carina growled dangerously.

"- without him, I am gonna be pissed."

Bryce sighed. "They were sort of a package deal, but we do need a demo guy, and he IS good at it."

Jenny sighed. This operation was rapidly getting out of her hands. "Fine," she grumbled, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind her.

"Anyway, let me finish introductions," Bryce said. "Ladies, Cole, this is Jenny Burton, the intrepid leader and financier of this operation – although, for the purposes of this mission, you will call her Sarah Walker."

"Pleasure all around," Jenny said. "Bryce, you said there were five people. I only count four."

"He missed me!" a voice said from behind the closed bathroom door.

Jenny turned toward the bathroom. "Uh…"

"You can open it, I'm not using the toilet or anything."

Raising an eyebrow, Jenny grabbed the doorknob, turned it, and pushed the bathroom door open. A young woman sat inside on the floor, clad only in lingerie, working on a laptop.

"Uh, hi," Jenny said. "I'm Jenny Burton."

"But you're Sarah Walker for the course of this operation," the woman replied. "I heard."

Jenny frowned. "Am I catching you at a bad time?"

"Not at all," was the answer. "I just, odd as it may seem, work best when I'm stripped down to my underwear, sitting on the bathroom floor. It might seem weird, but if you ever meet my father, then you'll get to know the TRUE definition of weird."

"Sure," Jenny said. "May I ask who exactly you are?"

"Oh, sorry," the young woman said, finally looking up. "Alex McHugh. Nice to meet you."

* * *

><p>"Wow," Chuck said as his father led him through a doorway from his "lair" into a completely white room. "What exactly is this?"<p>

"This, my boy, is the Intersect programming room," Stephen told him. "The walls, the ceiling, and the floor all appear to simply be white panels, but in reality…"

Stephen crossed to a computer terminal in the center of the room and hit a few keys. Instantly, the room went dark, and then each panel lit up with a blue screen.

_INTERSECT OFFLINE_, the screen proclaimed. _CIPHER PRESENT. SYSTEM FAILURE; ABORT, RETRY, IGNORE?_

Chuck looked at the screens. "Wow," he said. "And that's a hell of a computer you've got running it, too."

"Yeah, hell might be a good way to describe it," Stephen said, looking glumly at the morass of system boards and cables running on top of, around, and beneath the desk set in the room's center. "I've burned this thing out so many times… and now, I can't even get it to run the current Cipher without burning out at least one system board."

"And the Cipher is…"

"The Cipher is what makes the Intersect computer run," Stephen explained. "It powers the subliminal image encryptions and properly codes the information for the human brain."

"But you're having problems with the current one?" Chuck asked.

Stephen nodded. "Yeah. I guess this one is just too powerful – even with six daisy-chained Intel quad-core processors, I can never get it to come online without blowing a board."

"Well, I can take a look for you if you wa-"

"I'd rather you didn't, son," Stephen said, holding up a hand. "The truth of the matter is, you're not even supposed to know any of this exists. If you start working on it, then you get pulled into something that neither your mother nor I wants you involved with."

"Dad, I'm nearly thirty years old –"

"And this is STILL my house," Stephen interrupted Chuck, a bit of steel entering his voice. "You're not working on the Intersect computer. Are we clear?"

Chuck sighed, but he nodded. "Crystal clear."

* * *

><p><strong>CAST<strong>  
>Mary Bartowski – Linda Hamilton<br>Chuck Bartowski – Zachary Levi  
>Stephen Bartowski – Scott Bakula<br>Jenny Burton/Sarah Walker – Yvonne Strahovski  
>Bryce Larkin – Matt Bomer<br>Carina Miller – Mini Anden  
>Zondra Cage – Mercedes Masöhn<br>Amy Lidell – Mircea Monroe  
>Cole Barker – Jonathan Cake<br>Alex McHugh – Mekenna Melvin


	6. A Tale of Barney Stinson and TMZ

April 25, 2010.

Chuck Bartowski stepped out of his Prius into the Las Vegas afternoon. "Good afternoon, Mr. Bartowski!" the valet exclaimed as he came running over to the car.

Chuck nodded at the valet as he accepted the claim check for the Prius. He hated coming to Vegas. Everything here was too shiny, too plasticky, too… new. It was everything that the Sunset Strip wasn't.

Well, mostly. The Viper was decidedly in the same mold as most of the casinos on the Vegas Strip. Everything else in Los Angeles, though, was built to an older set of ideas. Even the Standard and Richard Branson's Virgin Casino – both of which had opened in 2000 – felt much more like they belonged than did the Viper.

Chuck was greeted with a blast of icy air as the doors of the Monte Carlo slid open before him. It was eighty-six degrees outside – hardly the worst it would be in Las Vegas before the summer's end – but the lobby was always kept at a consistent sixty-five degrees.

Having gone to Vegas casinos more than once when he was a student at Stanford, Chuck had been astonished to discover the reason the lobbies of Vegas hotels were always so cold. It turned out that the casinos themselves were kept at a temperature of between seventy-two and seventy-four degrees, thus encouraging patrons to migrate from the colder environs of the lobby to the more comfortable casino.

He had to admit, it was a pretty damn effective tactic.

Either way, he visited the Monte Carlo once a month, in order to make sure that everything was running smoothly and that the sign on the building's façade wasn't going to catch fire again. Chuck had raised HELL over that little incident in January of 2008, flying into McCarran Airport in the middle of the night after the fire and storming into the casino like the collected Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Before he left ten hours later, he had fired eighty-seven people, including the casino's general manager and most of the engineering staff, before ordering the casino closed until repairs to the exterior were complete.

"I will NOT have patrons coming to a chargrilled casino!" he had roared at the newly-promoted interim general manager, generating a look from the young man that reminded Chuck of an antelope running directly into a pack of lions on the Discovery Channel.

Three weeks later, when the casino re-opened, the total losses between property damage and revenue loss were estimated at $100 million. Nonetheless, Woody Woodcomb had been one hundred percent behind Chuck's decision to shutter the casino, and signed off on every single person he had fired.

And while that was the only incident during Chuck's tenure as COO of Woodcomb Hollywood Entertainment that had ever shown even a slight increase in his usually calm, placid temperament, it had been enough to strike terror into the heart of every single Woodcomb employee. The message spread quickly: don't mess with Chuck Bartowski.

Chuck had to admit, he didn't mind the treatment that he now got as a result, ESPECIALLY at the Monte Carlo. When he showed up, EVERYTHING was always perfect – down to the Xbox 360 in his room, and – if Morgan was roadtripping with him – grape soda in the refrigerator, chilled to an exact 37° Fahrenheit.

This particular trip, though? HE had to do everything perfectly, or there was going to be hell to pay. Woody had made it crystal clear that he expected Chuck to return to Los Angeles with the agreement to purchase the Cosmopolitan from Wells Fargo in hand, co-signed by Alexei Volkoff. If Chuck failed…

Well, at the VERY LEAST, Chuck was going to find himself back behind the Nerd Herd counter at the Buy More. At most…

Chuck didn't want to think about "at most."

As he dumped his bag in his room, Chuck – as always – grimaced at the view out the window. He always asked for a room with a view of the Strip, because he liked being reminded of everything the Sunset Strip was NOT – everything he would fight to keep the Sunset Strip from turning into.

But seriously. If he looked directly out his window, there was a stunning view of… the Planet Hollywood Casino. At least that one HAD had an interesting theme to it, back when it was the Aladdin. Now, it was just another generic casino, based on a restaurant chain that had utterly and completely failed.

"Only in Vegas," Chuck muttered.

As usual, Chuck didn't have any business to conduct on Sunday evening – just time to kill. He fired up the Xbox and played _Call of Duty_ for a couple of hours, but before too long, his stomach started reminding him that he hadn't eaten since just before noon.

Acquiescing to his stomach's demands, Chuck headed downstairs. He could have had room service brought up, but he always preferred to eat in one of the casino's restaurants, liking the opportunity to "people-watch", as it were.

Strolling into D. Vino, Chuck watched with no small amusement as the restaurant staff immediately went into a mode that was somewhere between military precision and "oh shit, the boss is here," immediately seating him at a table with a commanding view of the restaurant. Chuck ordered a nine year old cabernet sauvignon and perused the menu.

The Italian food here was incredible, but somehow, to Chuck's own palate, there was nothing that could touch Kraft Mac & Cheese in the blue box. He knew it was ridiculous, but there was nothing he could do about it –

"Short of reprogramming my brain with Dad's ridiculous computer," he snorted to himself.

That particular puzzle had been wandering around his brain for the prior three weeks. His father had explicitly ordered him to not work on the computer, but Chuck couldn't help it – it was a computer, it needed fixing, and he was damn well going to figure it out. Unfortunately, the only way he could diagnose it thus far was based on what he had physically seen of it.

Forty minutes later, Chuck was still puzzling over the Intersect computer. His arugula salad and seafood risotto had come and gone, and he was slowly making his way through his third glass of wine, when a voice interrupted his reverie.

"Excuse me… I hope I'm not interrupting any important thoughts?"

Chuck's head snapped up, a look of disbelief appearing on his face as he identified the voice. "Hooo-ly SHIT," he breathed, standing to his feet. "Bryce freaking Larkin?"

Bryce grinned as he extended a hand to Chuck. "How's it goin', Chuck?"

"It's going great," Chuck replied, unable to believe his eyes. "I haven't seen you… God, since graduation, I don't think!"

"I think you're probably right," Bryce replied. "Mind if I join you?"

"No, not at all!" Chuck exclaimed. "Please… I was just about to get another glass of wine. Care to join me?"

Bryce's smile got a little bigger. "I do love a good glass of wine," he replied.

* * *

><p>An hour and a half later, Chuck and Bryce had moved to the Monte Carlo's pub, where they could order slightly more pedestrian (and therefore less expensive) alcohol, and not feel like they were going to be shushed by some overstuffed maître d' when they laughed. Bryce had filled Chuck in on PARTS of his life over the prior seven years, including being in the Army and subsequently being unceremoniously tossed OUT of the Army after coming out.<p>

"I'm pretty sure President Obama's gonna do something about that pretty soon here," Chuck offered.

Bryce snorted. "Commie."

"Okay, you're just as conservative as you were the day we graduated," Chuck noted with no small degree of amusement.

"I know, it makes me a walking contradiction, blah, blah, whatever," Bryce replied. "So I'm a gay Republican. Please tell me you find that funny."

"I find it hilarious," Chuck answered. "But hey, I'm a registered Socialist who works for the biggest company in Los Angeles. Who am I to talk?"

Bryce grinned. "Fair enough," he said. "So…"

There was one topic that they hadn't discussed, but it was bound to come up. Bryce had just been hoping that Chuck would bring it up. "I was, uh, sorry to hear about Jill."

Chuck sighed. "Yeah, thanks," he grumbled.

A year earlier, Chuck's long-time girlfriend, Jill Roberts, had been exposed by TMZ as having been carrying on an affair. The thing was, it wasn't her so much that TMZ had been concerned with as it was the other involved party – Los Angeles Lakers forward Lamar Odom.

Nonetheless, it was not only humiliating for Chuck, but heart-breaking as well. Jill had really been the only woman he had ever truly loved, so to find out that she was having an affair was just devastating for him. He had spent nearly a week in a suite at the Standard, holed up with cheese puffs and a Playstation, and it had only been Woody Woodcomb summoning Ellie from El Salvador that had finally dragged Chuck out of his stupor and back into the world.

"Seriously, though," Bryce continued, "you gotta wonder what exactly Odom was thinking when he moved on from her to Khloe Kardashian."

Much as Chuck hated to think about Jill with that douchebag basketball player, he had to admit that Bryce had a point – she was about a thousand times hotter than the youngest of the Kardashian sisters. "Can't argue with that," he said. "She looks like a damn Wookie."

Bryce guffawed loudly at that, and then did his best Chewbacca impression. Chuck snorted with laughter as he set his drink down on the bar. "Careful," he warned Bryce, "that kind of carrying on could attract the wrong type of attention."

"Excuse me…"

At the sound of the very cultured British female voice, Bryce and Chuck's heads both came up. "I think it may have attracted exactly the RIGHT type of attention," Bryce deadpanned to Chuck. "Hi," he said to the woman, extending his hand. "I'm Bryce. Haaaave you met Chuck?"

And like Chuck's own personal Barney Stinson, Bryce turned him to face the woman and immediately made a beeline for the exit, leaving Chuck alone to face…

An incredibly beautiful red-haired, green-eyed woman who was dressed in a black cocktail dress that would look fantastic on the floor.

Chuck tried to push that last thought from his head, knowing that it would not get him very far if he didn't act like a grown-up. "Hi," he said. "Chuck Bartowski."

She smiled and took his hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bartowski. I'm Vivian MacArthur."

* * *

><p>The coded knock told Jenny that Bryce had returned. Moving to the door, she looked through the peephole to make sure that nobody was with him, and then pulled the door open.<p>

"He has no idea what's going on," Bryce said without any preamble. "Of that, I'm certain."

Jenny followed him into the main part of the room, plopping down on one of the beds as Bryce sat down across from her. "You're certain?" she asked. "He IS the chief operating officer for this hotel, and we HAVE been here for three weeks."

"Nah," Bryce replied, shaking his head. "He comes up here once a month. It's a routine visit, just to make sure everything's in order. At least, that's what he told me, and in all the years I've known him, Chuck Bartowski has never been able to effectively tell a lie."

"Did anything useful come out of the conversation?"

Bryce grinned and shrugged. "I may or may not have played the 'Have You Met Ted' game with him and a really good-looking woman…"

Jenny frowned. "Bryce, you were just supposed to be figuring out what he was doing here, not helping him get laid."

"Hey, I'm sorry," Bryce shot back, "but Chuck's been my friend for more than a decade. If I can be a good wingman for him, then so be it."

* * *

><p>April 26, 2010.<p>

The sounds of the Cypress Hill song "Rise Up" filled Studio K at KROQ, 106.7 FM, Los Angeles. Kevin Ryder looked up at his producer, Mike Catherwood. "We have him?"

"Good to go!" Psycho Mike replied as Tom Morello's last chords growled through the speakers.

As the song went silent, the voice of Gene "Bean" Baxter replaced the song, piped in from Bean's studio in Washington state. "You are listening to the Kevin and Bean Show… hey, do we have Harvey Levin from TMZ dot com?"

A sound effect of three rapid drumbeats boomed out, followed by a clip of somebody saying, "I don't know. It's not my job, man."

Kevin rolled his eyes as Lisa May, sitting next to him, laughed. "I see someone on the phone, but I am not capable of picking up that line…" Psycho Mike said, eliciting a sigh from Kevin. "Uh… there we go."

"There we go," Kevin echoed, wishing to God Psycho Mike would wake up with some professionalism one morning.

"TMZ dot com, check your local listings for TMZ Television," Bean said. "He is the man, the myth, the legend, the Harvey. Hey, Harvey, how are ya, man?"

"_Good morning guys, how are you?_" the voice of Harvey Levin sounded over the speakerphone.

"Good, Harvey," Bean replied.

Without responding himself, Kevin jumped in. "Look, I understand that Dax Holt is a dedicated reporter, I get that there's a tiny part of him that is doing this because of his commitment to his job… but for God's sake, the man is on vacation in Las Vegas. Don't you ever give him a break, Harvey?"

Harvey laughed. "_Actually, this was totally of his own volition. I didn't even know about it myself until about twenty minutes ago._"

"Alright, Harvey, tell us what's going on," Bean said. "I understand that there's some intrigue in Las Vegas?"

"_Intrigue is one way of putting it,_" Harvey replied. "_Another way of putting it would be that Mr. Holt had a Chuck Bartowski sighting at the Monte Carlo that he decided was definitely noteworthy_."

"Okay, you're going to have to explain to me why that's noteworthy," Kevin interjected. "Chuck Bartowski runs Woody Woodcomb's casinos, and the Monte Carlo happens to be one of them. I'm sure he's probably there quite a bit."

"_He's there pretty regularly, actually_," Harvey said. "_This incident, however, is noteworthy for a different reason – Dax spotted him out in public with a woman_."

A confused look appeared on Kevin's face. "What's so significant about the chief operating officer of Woodcomb Hollywood being out in public with a woman?"

"Oh," Lisa May breathed. "Of course! He hasn't been out in public with a woman since the whole Jill Roberts/Lamar Odom thing!"

"_Exactly right, Lisa_," Harvey said.

"Leave it to Lisa to remember the gossip," Bean cracked. "So, Chuck Bartowski was with a woman. Does Dax have any incriminating photos?"

"_He does not_," Harvey said. "_What he DOES have is photos of Chuck leaving the Monte Carlo pub with this woman, and then appearing at the breakfast buffet again with her the next morning – and here's the kicker. He was wearing the same clothing he had been the night before._"

And with that, Psycho Mike pushed an effects button, and a porn groove filled the studio. As the bass line kicked in, he faded it out, as Kevin said, "So we're thinking that Chuck Bartowski got lucky last night. Do we know who with?"

"_We do indeed,_" Harvey answered him, and they could almost hear him smiling. "_It took a little digging on Dax's part, but it turns out that the woman Chuck was with last night is one Vivian MacArthur. She herself isn't really famous, but her father is._"

"Who's her father?" Kevin asked. "Mick Jagger? Bill Clinton? Bean?"

Harvey laughed. "_No way,_" he replied. "_She's too attractive to have been fathered by any of those three_."

"Hey, hey now," Bean objected. "Come on, play nice. Who's her dad?"

"_It turns out that MacArthur is her mom's name,_" Harvey answered, continuing to tease them. "_It seems that her dad is this Russian bigwig. He was the last defense minister of the Soviet Union, and now he runs an arms manufacturing company – a guy by the name of Alexei Volkoff._"

* * *

><p>Out on Sunset Boulevard, Morgan Grimes had been dancing around in front of the Viper Casino, posterboard protest sign in hand. He had been listening to the Kevin and Bean Show on his portable radio, only partially paying attention to the show until he had heard Chuck's name.<p>

THAT had gotten his attention, but he hadn't been too concerned until they got the payoff from Harvey Levin.

Morgan froze on the sidewalk and dropped his sign. "Oh, shit."

* * *

><p><strong>CAST<strong>  
>Chuck Bartowski – Zachary Levi<br>Bryce Larkin – Matt Bomer  
>Vivian MacArthur – Lauren Cohan<br>Jenny Burton (Sarah Walker) – Yvonne Strahovski  
>Kevin Ryder – himself<br>Psycho Mike Catherwood – himself  
>Bean Baxter – himself<br>Harvey Levin – himself  
>Lisa May – herself<br>Morgan Grimes – Joshua Gomez

_**Author's note:**__ for those of you who might not be from the Los Angeles area, the Kevin and Bean Show is a very popular syndicated morning radio show, broadcasting on its flagship station, KROQ 106.7 FM in Los Angeles. At least once a week, they will have Harvey Levin, the founder of TMZ, come on the show to talk about entertainment gossip. Harvey actually WAS on the show on the morning of April 26__th__, 2010, and the opening lines of that segment were exactly as they are presented here._

_Also, I have no idea if the lobby vs. casino temperature thing is true or not. It's just something I've personally observed, and it would be fairly logical if that were the reason why._


	7. The Cat's Out of the Bag

_**Author's note:** I'm sorry, did I forget to mention that the first part of this story isn't very Charah friendly?_

_That is to say... no more death threats, please. :-) I assure you, there will be Charah later on, and furthermore, John Casey **will** show up eventually._

* * *

><p>April 26, 2010.<p>

It had been a long time since Chuck Bartowski had woken up in bed with somebody else. In fact, he was pretty sure the last time it had happened had been the morning before TMZ had broken the story on Jill.

But here he was, in Las Vegas, waking up in bed with the very attractive, very sweet Vivian MacArthur. And here was the thing – had she just approached him in the pub without any sort of prompting, he probably would have been suspicious. However, since she had been drawn in by Bryce's Chewbacca impression – she was, apparently, an enormous _Star Wars_ nerd – and then Bryce had played Chuck right into her hands with his best Barney Stinson impression (Bryce had been quite the impressionist the night before), Chuck had no suspicions of her whatsoever.

And he had to be realistic – she had made his night very, VERY enjoyable.

But right at this moment, he had to stop thinking about last night and start thinking about this morning. According to the bedside clock, it was 6:30 AM. Chuck needed to be downstairs in the lobby to meet Woodcomb's chief financial officer at 8:00, and they were meeting with Alexei Volkoff at 8:30. But before that happened, Chuck had promised Vivian that he would have breakfast with her.

He tried to be quiet as he got dressed. He was in Vivian's room, and he needed to get back to his own and change before coming back to take her to breakfast. As he sat down to pull his shoes on, though, he heard her stir behind him.

"You're not trying to sneak out on me, now are you, Mr. Bartowski?" he heard Vivian ask sleepily.

Chuck turned to look at Vivian and smiled. "Not at all," he replied. "I just need to go change before we have breakfast."

"Nope."

Chuck frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you're not going anywhere," Vivian said, smiling as she sat up and let the covers fall away from her very clearly naked upper body. "You're going to be quite busy until we go to breakfast."

* * *

><p>"Harvey, it's Dax."<p>

"What's going on? Aren't you supposed to be on vacation?"

"Well, yeah, but I mean, I just saw a major story."

"Uh, hold on. Let me turn the recorder on. Okay, you ready?"

"Yeah. Here's the deal. I saw Chuck Bartowski leave the pub at the Monte Carlo last night with a woman, and I just saw him walk into the buffet with the same woman -"

"Seriously?"

"No joke. He's here, with a red-headed woman. I asked around a little bit, and it turns out that her name is Vivian MacArthur. She's apparently the daughter of Russian arms magnate Alexei Volkoff."

"Okay. You got pictures?"

"I do. I'm uploading them to my laptop right now; I'll e-mail those over to you as soon as they're done."

"Sounds good. Dax – there anything more to this? I'm going on KROQ in twenty minutes, and if I can break this story, it'll be huge."

"Oh yeah. Get this – Chuck Bartowski's wearing the same shirt he was wearing last night."

* * *

><p>Morgan Grimes froze on the sidewalk, his protest sign falling out of his hands. "Oh, shit," he uttered. "This is so not good."<p>

Turning around, he looked up at the Viper. Pulling his earphones out of his ears, he withdrew his Droid from his pocket and dialed Chuck.

The phone rang, twice, three times, four times. "_Hi, you've reached the voicemail of Chuck Bartowski. I can't answer the phone right now, but if you'll leave-_"

"Crap," Morgan grumbled. Dropping the Droid back in his pocket, he took a deep breath.

"Okay, Chuck needs my help," he said to himself. "He's my best friend... I can't get him on the phone..."

He looked up at the Viper again. Going in there would be like a pig going into a bear's cave. But he had to help Chuck.

Closing his eyes and taking another deep breath, he opened his eyes and started jogging toward the casino entrance. The doors slid open as he approached, and Morgan ran through the door -

"Hold it RIGHT there, Mr. Grimes."

Morgan froze, and looked over to his right in despair. "Aw, dammit, Vicky, this is not a good time."

Victoria Dunwoody, the head agent on Chuck's GRETA (General Readiness – Emergencies, Tactics, and Accidents) Team, approached Morgan, a frown on her face, radio in hand. "Morgan, you're not allowed in here, and you know it."

"I'm not in here about the protest!" Morgan insisted. "I have to talk to Mr. Woodcomb, right now."

Victoria smiled and rolled her eyes. "Well, THAT's not happening."

"Vicky, Chuck might be in serious trouble, and he's not picking up his phone," Morgan pleaded. "I need to get to Mr. Woodcomb!"

"Oh, come on, Morgan, you don't think I'm gonna take that seriou-"

"TMZ is reporting that Chuck spent the night with Alexei Volkoff's daughter."

Victoria froze, and her jaw dropped. "Oh, hell," she uttered, and then raised the radio to her mouth. "This is Dunwoody. I need to see Mr. Woodcomb right away."

* * *

><p>As the black Lincoln Towncar swept into the Monte Carlo's drive, the valet staff came to immediate attention. Apparently, it was a far more imposing car than Chuck's Prius, which would explain why he always ended up opening his own door before anybody recognized him.<p>

Chuck himself stood on the sidewalk, feeling quite pleased with himself. He had had a wonderful night, he was dressed in a hand-tailored suit that he reserved for occasions such as this morning, and he had an excellent feeling about the impending negotiations with Alexei Volkoff.

Two valets ran toward the Towncar as it rolled to a stop, pulling open the back doors. A tall, rather frightening looking man stood up out of the driver's side – Richard K. Noble, executive assistant to the chief financial officer of Woodcomb Hollywood Entertainment. Rick had graduated from West Point in 1999, served in the Army as a Green Beret for the next four years, and after leaving the Army had signed with the New England Patriots, winning two Super Bowl rings with them before a crippling knee injury had prematurely ended his career.

But as imposing as Rick was, the man who got out of the passenger side of the car was, quite simply, a force of nature.

Or at least, that's what people thought at first glance.

The reality was that Michael Xavier Tucker – or, as his friends called him, "Big Mike" - was a very friendly individual. And realistically, had he not known Chuck Bartowski, he likely would've been content to live out his years as the manager of the Buy More in Burbank.

However, when Chuck had been hired by Woodcomb, he brought Big Mike along with him. Sure, he had never had any sort of executive experience, but he had an uncanny knack for numbers which had helped him keep the Buy More profitable for years. And sure enough, a year after he had come on board at Woodcomb, the company had shown a greater profit margin than ever before.

"Good morning, Big Mike!" Chuck called, walking toward his CFO. "How was the flight?"

Big Mike grinned. "Brief and well-stocked with Krispy Kremes," he replied as he crossed the driveway. "And as long as it's equally well-stocked for the trip back, we'll be just fine."

"I already told you twice, sir, you will have your sweet onion chicken teriyaki Subway foot-long on the way back," Rick Noble said, sounding slightly exasperated. "I figured it would probably taste a lot better if we got it fresh here in Vegas rather than bringing it with us from L.A."

Chuck looked from Big Mike to Rick and back, an amused smile on his face. "I'm not sure I will ever understand your obsession with Subway, Big Mike."

He shrugged. "Listen, Chuck, I'm a numbers man. I look at the numbers and try to figure out what my best deal is. And I figure that getting twelve inches of tasty, delicious sandwich for five dollars is definitely a good deal."

Chuck glanced at Big Mike as they began walking toward the casino doors. "You sound like a commercial."

* * *

><p>Morgan was extremely nervous as Victoria led him into the executive office suite on the top floor of the Viper. He had been up here exactly once – right after Chuck had been hired. Now, though, with his protest, he felt like he was the fly stepping into the spider's parlor.<p>

"Good morning, Mr. Grimes," Woody Woodcomb said, standing up behind his desk, a frown on his face. "Can I get you something to drink? Water? Coffee? Grape soda?"

Morgan shook his head, his mouth dry. "Uh, no, thanks, I'm good."

Woody looked at Morgan and narrowed his eyes. "Vicky, please get Morgan a grape soda. Make sure it's chilled to exactly 37 degrees Fahrenheit."

"Yes, sir," Victoria replied, turning and leaving the office.

"Morgan, have a seat," Woody said, sounding perturbed as he sat back down behind his desk. "I need you to tell me exactly what you told Vicky."

Morgan sighed and sat down across from Woody. "I was, uh, I was out front of the casino -"

"I'm well aware."

"Yeah. Uh, anyway, I was listening to Kevin and Bean, like I do every weekday morning, on, uh, KROQ -"

"I'm also aware of what station Kevin and Bean are on, Morgan."

"Of course. I'm sorry, sorry. Well, Harvey Levin, from TMZ, he was on the show, and he said that one of his reporters was at the Monte Carlo, and the reporter saw Chuck leave the pub last night with a woman, and show up at the buffet this morning with the same woman, dressed in the same clothes he was wearing last night."

Woody leaned across the desk and fixed Morgan with a glare. "And who exactly did TMZ say that woman was?"

Morgan's eyes widened and he felt faint. "Uh, Alexei Volkoff's daughter."

Woody's glare intensified, and Morgan started to fear that his innards were going to be liquefied when there was a knock at the door. Morgan turned to see Victoria standing there, a tray in her hands, and a look of disdain on her face.

"One grape soda, chilled to precisely thirty-seven degrees," she said dryly.

Morgan stood up and almost ran to the door. Taking the soda off the tray, he popped it open and took a long gulp.

"Oh, that's better," he sighed, turning back toward Woody Woodcomb.

Woody's glare had lessened in intensity, with a slight degree of amusement appearing on his face. "Glad you feel a little better, Morgan, because you get to sit right here in this office while we get in touch with Chuck."

"Uh, he's not answering his phone -"

"Morgan, I own the Monte Carlo," Woody interrupted, looking even more amused. "Don't you think I might have some way of getting hold of him?"

* * *

><p>Chuck and Big Mike strode into the boardroom, Rick Noble behind them. "Good morning!" Chuck said as he walked in. "I apologize for our tardiness."<p>

"Not a problem at all," the man sitting at the end of the table said with a smooth English accent, rising from his chair. "I am Alexei Volkoff. This -" he indicated the grey-haired, very tanned man sitting next to him "- is my lawyer and most trusted aide, Riley Palmer."

"A pleasure," Riley said, his voice decidedly one of a life-long Southern Californian.

"Pleased to meet you both," Chuck replied. "I'm Chuck Bartowski, chief operating officer for Woodcomb Hollywood Entertainment; this is Michael Tucker, chief financial officer."

Volkoff smiled. "Well, gentlemen, let's see if we can buy a casino, shall we?"

"I think that sounds like an excellent idea," Chuck replied, taking a seat across from Volkoff. "By the way, sir, if it's not too impolite – I would never have guessed you were from Russia."

"Not at all," Volkoff replied. "I was obsessed with England as a child and watched a great many Bond movies. I attended Oxford and the London School of Economics, and by the time I returned home to Moscow, I hadn't the slightest trace of a Russian accent to my English."

Chuck raised an eyebrow, very carefully not letting anything show on his face. _I guess this Intersect reprogramming was pretty comprehensive_, he thought to himself. _Well done, Dad_.

"Sounds pretty reasonable to me," Chuck replied, slightly distracted as the door to the boardroom opened and a Monte Carlo employee approached Rick Noble, cell phone in hand. As Rick took the phone, Chuck opened the leather portfolio on the table in front of him. "Anyway, shall we discuss the terms of the Cosmopolitan agreement -"

"Uh, sir," he heard Rick's voice say, "you have a very urgent phone call from Mr. Woodcomb."

_What the hell?_ Chuck looked at Volkoff. "Mr. Volkoff, I apologize," Chuck said. "I'm sure you understand, having been in the Politburo, when the boss says jump, you ask, 'How high?'"

Volkoff laughed. "Mr. Bartowski, let me assure you, when I was in the Politburo, when Mr. Gorbachev said jump, I didn't even ask how high. I just jumped."

Chuck nodded and stood from the table, taking the phone from Rick Noble's hand. "This is Chuck."

"_ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR GODDAMNED MIND?"_

Chuck winced. That was certainly not what he had been expecting. "Uh, I'm sorry, sir, I'm in the middle of the Volkoff negotiations. What's going on?"

"_WHAT'S GOING ON IS YOU'RE FUCKING UP THE VOLKOFF NEGOTIATIONS!"_

"Sir, I just barely began to discuss things with him," Chuck said, growing slightly irritated. "Would you mind explaining what you're talking about?"

He heard Woody Woodcomb take a deep breath at the other end. "_Chuck, here's the deal. I have Morgan Grimes in my office on speakerphone with you. He is going to tell you EXACTLY what he just told me, and I want you to listen very carefully._"

Chuck frowned. "Morgan's in your office?"

"_JUST LISTEN_."

"Yes, of course," Chuck replied as the door opened again, a man coming through and walking over to Volkoff. "What's going on?"

"_Chuck, here's the deal,_" Morgan said. "_I was listening to Kevin and Bean a little while ago, and Harvey Levin from TMZ was on._"

"Okay," Chuck said, watching the man talking to Volkoff. The man showed Volkoff an iPad, and Volkoff frowned. _What is going on?_

"_He said that one of his reporters saw you leave the Monte Carlo pub last night with a woman named Vivian MacArthur, and then you showed up at the breakfast buffet with her this morning, dressed in the same clothes you were in last night._"

"Uh..." _What in the blue hell?_

"_Chuck,_" Woody Woodcomb broke in, "_I need to know if that's true._"

"Yeah, it is," Chuck replied. "What the hell is going on?"

At that moment, Volkoff walked over to Chuck, a look somewhere between anger and amusement on his face. "Mr. Bartowski, could you kindly explain this to me?" He handed the iPad to Chuck, who looked down at it -

"_Chuck_," Morgan said, "_Vivian MacArthur is Alexei Volkoff's daughter_."

Chuck's eyes widened as he saw the iPad. TMZ's website was up, and there, in high definition, was a picture of Chuck and Vivian having breakfast, right in the middle of the page. He looked back at Alexei Volkoff, and sighed.

"Yeah," Chuck replied. "I think that particular cat might already be out of the bag."

* * *

><p><strong>CAST<strong>  
>Chuck Bartowski – Zachary Levi<br>Vivian MacArthur – Lauren Cohan  
>Dax Holt – himself<br>Harvey Levin – himself  
>Morgan Grimes – Joshua Gomez<br>Victoria Dunwoody – Stacy Keibler  
>Rick Noble – Isaiah Mustafa<br>Big Mike Tucker – Mark Christopher Lawrence  
>Woody Woodcomb – Bruce Boxleitner<br>Alexei Volkoff – Timothy Dalton  
>Riley Palmer – Ray Wise<p>

_**PS** – Okay, so there were no death threats._


	8. You Are So Fired

April 26, 2010.

From time to time, events would occur in Chuck Bartowski's life that would cause time to seemingly stretch into slow motion. The night he spent sleeping on the sidewalk outside the Arc Light Theater waiting for the premiere of Episode I sprang readily to mind. So too did that very first time that Jill had tantalizingly – and far too slowly – peeled off every last stitch of clothing she was wearing in Chuck's dorm room.

And then, of course, there was the night that he had been unceremoniously hauled home by the LAPD after wrecking his dad's Mustang.

It hadn't been his fault, of course. How could he have anticipated a coyote running out in the middle of the 101? He had, after all, been going the speed limit. Unfortunately, so too had the Ryder truck in the next lane over.

This particular moment was more of the latter variety. He was not looking forward to a new installment in the _Star Wars_ saga, nor was he about to have sex with a very attractive woman. Indeed, if anything, the second of those two had led to the predicament in which he currently found himself.

This was one of those times when the many variables facing Chuck were almost too many to handle. The phone in his hand with Woody Woodcomb on the other end. Alexei Volkoff, standing in front of him, iPad in hand. Rick Noble and Mike Tucker both looking at him with a mixture of concern and dread – and perhaps, just maybe, a little touch of amusement.

And those two knew better than perhaps anybody else that this was not the first time that Chuck had gotten in seriously hot water for sleeping with the wrong woman.

* * *

><p>May 25, 2009.<br>Memorial Day.

"BYE, BYE MISS AMERICAN PIE…"

Chuck Bartowski was drunk. Drunk as drunk could be.

Love was a bitch, and so was Jill. Nearly ten years he had been with her, a loving and faithful boyfriend and then fiancé. And yet, three months before, when they had gone out to Phoenix, for NBA All-Star Weekend – Chuck as a representative of Woodcomb Hollywood Entertainment, and Jill essentially as his plus-one – well, that was when it had started.

Apparently, while Chuck had been off glad-handing high rollers, Jill had been meeting Los Angeles Lakers' forward Lamar Odom. The meeting in Phoenix had led to another back in Los Angeles, which in April, during the Lakers' first-round series against the Utah Jazz, had led to TMZ breaking the story after Odom got into a locker room fight with Andrew Bynum and Bynum decided to spill the beans.

And so, a month later, Chuck was still not entirely functional. It was true, he was no longer holed up in his executive suite at the Standard, with nothing but _Clone Wars_ DVDs and cheese puffs to keep him company – but had it not been for Ellie's intervention, he probably still would be.

Nonetheless, Ellie and Morgan had sort of smacked him into shape – enough, at least, that he could go to the Viper every day and perform a reasonable semblance of his job. After hours, though, all bets were off.

At no point had that been more true than at this very moment. In the wee hours of Memorial Day, Chuck was coming off of what could generously be described as a holiday weekend bender. In reality, it had basically been Guantanamo Bay for his liver.

He was wandering the back corridors of the Viper. The casino was bustling, but the restaurants were closed for the night, leaving the backstage area of the hotel where Chuck found himself mostly dead. He came across the occasional hotel employee, each of whom greeted him with a courteous, "Good evening, Mr. Bartowski," all of them pointedly ignoring the bottle of Johnnie Walker blue label Chuck carried in his hand.

When Chuck reached the door of the kitchen for Angeles Churrascaria – the Viper's Brazilian restaurant – he stopped. Something smelled good. Something within the kitchen drew him in.

Pushing open the door, he stuck his head into the kitchen. "Hel-LO?" he called out, more than a little drunkenly.

"Back here!" he heard a voice call back.

Staggering into the kitchen, Chuck wandered toward the back, following the voice. "Who's out there?" the voice called.

"The King of Hollywood!" he called back.

Had Chuck been sober, he would've known just how ridiculous he sounded. As it was, the other person present in the kitchen DID recognize how ridiculous Chuck sounded.

However, the Viper's executive chef, Lou Palone, had kept abreast of everything Chuck had been through in the prior month. She had always carried a little tiny bit of a torch for Chuck, so she of course had immediately felt sympathetic toward him, and had made it quite clear more than once since that she was more than happy to demonstrate her sympathy – "In WHATEVER way you need," she had told him the last time they saw one another.

At the moment, though, she saw a very, very drunk man. "Oh, Chuck," Lou sighed. "You are drunk."

"I am not just drunk," he replied, grinning crookedly as she stepped into his view. "I am shit-fo- uh, shit fe- uh… hammered."

"Of that, there is no question," Lou replied with a chuckle. "Why don't we start by you handing me that bottle?"

Chuck regarded her with a suspicious look. "You… you're not gonna steal my Johnnie Walker?"

"No, I'm not going to steal your Johnnie Walker," Lou answered. "I just think that maybe you need to not drink any more for the moment."

Chuck frowned. "Well…"

Lou crossed the kitchen to Chuck and gently removed the bottle from his hand. "Chuck, I want you to go into the staff break room and take a seat. I'll be in there in a moment, okay?"

"Okay," Chuck replied, relinquishing the bottle. He turned away from Lou, and carefully walked toward the break room.

A few minutes later, when Lou walked into the break room, she found Chuck slumped down at the table, head resting on his arms. "Chuck…"

"'mawake…"

Lou grinned ruefully as he carefully lifted his head. "You are so drunk," she sighed.

"I am quite aware," he said. "What… exactly… are you holding?"

"This is a cup of very black coffee," Lou replied, setting the steaming mug down in front of him. "And this… this is a sandwich."

She set the plate down in front of him and stepped away. "What's in it?" Chuck asked suspiciously.

"Roasted turkey," she replied. "Coleslaw, muenster cheese, and Russian dressing, all on grilled challah bread."

He nodded. "Sounds good. What's it called."

Lou's cheeks turned a little red. "It's, uh, it's called the Chuck," she told him. "I named it after you."

Chuck looked up from the sandwich toward Lou. "You named a sandwich after me?" he asked with a smile. "That… might be the nicest thing anybody's ever done for me."

* * *

><p>Forty minutes later, the sandwich and the coffee were gone, and Chuck, while not sober, had been reduced to a buzz. "God, I'm pathetic," he groaned, resting his head in his hands and staring down at the table.<p>

"Nah," Lou replied. "We all go through crap like this from time to time, and besides, you were with her for nearly ten years, weren't you?"

"Something like that," Chuck sighed. "I just… I… I shouldn't have taken her to Phoenix with me."

Lou smiled. "Chuck, it just means that there's somebody out there for you, somebody way better than Jill."

Chuck laughed humorlessly. "Either that, or I'm going to die celibate and alone." He shook his head and looked over at Lou. "You just went through something like that yourself, didn't you?"

"Yeah, well, Stavros was always a douche," Lou sighed. "And a possessive douche, too. I actually broke up with him."

"Oh, sorry," Chuck replied. "I… I didn't – I shouldn't have mentioned –"

"Don't worry about it," Lou said. "It was my mistake in the first place. I corrected it." She stopped, and bit her bottom lip. "You know what, I'm gonna go get that bottle of Johnnie Walker."

Chuck looked up at her. "You sure that's a good idea?"

She frowned. "Oh, probably not. I just… well, you know how much it sucks."

"Yeah, I do," Chuck replied, reaching out a hand and placing it on her arm. "But hey, listen – somebody like you? There's no way you won't find somebody good."

Lou looked up at Chuck, smiling at her –

And she just couldn't resist any longer. Leaning across the table, Lou kissed Chuck, bringing her hands up to his face in the hopes that she could keep him from pulling away –

But it turned out she didn't even need to, because Chuck had apparently decided he was going to kiss her back with just as much gusto as she was kissing him. "Hmmmm," she moaned as she felt his tongue touch hers.

She couldn't help it. This was something she had wanted for a long time. She curled her fingers around the hem of Chuck's shirt, and began to pull it over his head. He offered no resistance, although when they broke so she could lift the shirt over his head, he looked at her and spoke.

"This is pretty unsanitary," he whispered huskily. "We could get in trouble if the L.A. County health department ever finds out."

Lou looked back at Chuck, the deep brown pools of his eyes seemingly sucking her in. "Turns out I know the guy in charge," she whispered.

* * *

><p>Stavros Demitrios was the son of a Greek shipping magnate. Said Greek shipping magnate had long been involved with the importation of certain… questionable… items through the ports of Los Angeles and Long Beach. However, since he had always been a model civic leader, Stavros' father, Yari, had always been more or less left alone by law enforcement.<p>

Right at the moment, though, Stavros just didn't give a damn about any of that. As he marched through the back corridors of the Viper Hotel and Casino, gigantic bouquet of flowers in hand, he had only one goal in mind –

Winning back his ex-girlfriend, Lou Palone.

She had left him, on the grounds that he was a douchebag. He refused to accept that. Affliction t-shirts? Hair gel? Fake bronzer? Please. It was just a look, and besides, he couldn't help it if he was just too damn irresistible for all the women in Los Angeles.

However, as he approached the kitchen doors, he heard what could only be described as a moan. Well, no, more than a moan. Multiple moans. And Stavros recognized one of the voices producing those moans. In fact, he had heard that very voice moaning before.

But he didn't know the other, decidedly male voice. "Son of a BITCH," he growled in Greek, slamming open the door.

He didn't see the offending party immediately, but as he marched through the kitchen, the pair came into view, in what appeared to be the break room –

And Chuck Bartowski's face came into Stavros' field of vision just as Chuck was clearly finishing.

"What the FUCK is this?" Stavros barked, causing Chuck and Lou to both look over at him in alarm.

"Oh, shit," Lou muttered. "Stavros –"

"I come here, I come to beg, to plead for you to take me back, and this is what I find? Five days since you break up with me, and here you are, playing hide the imported hard salami with this… this stay puff marshmallow?" Stavros felt his face turning red, his eyes feeling like they were about to bug out of his head.

"You!" he barked, pointing at Chuck. "I wish to know who is your supervisor, so that I can have you fired!"

Chuck looked back at Stavros as he pulled up his pants. "Uh, actually, I'm sort of in charge around here."

Stavros frowned. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Chuck grinned and shrugged. "Chuck Bartowski, chief operating officer of Woodcomb Hollywood Entertainment," he replied. "And you are?"

Stavros stared at Chuck for a moment, and then, with a wordless growl, threw the flowers to the floor, turned around, and stalked out of the kitchen.

As he neared the exit, he felt like his blood was beginning to boil. Bursting through the door from the service corridor into the casino, he set his sights on the front door and marched toward it like a rampaging bull.

"YOU!" he barked at the valet, as he stormed out onto the patio. "Mr. Bartowski needs his car, and he needs it right damn now!"

The valet jumped to his feet. "Uh, yes, yes sir!" Jeff Barnes replied, before taking off running.

A moment later, the black Toyota Avalon pulled up into the driveway in front of Stavros. "Here you go, sir!" Jeff said, getting out of the car.

Stavros glared at Jeff, and then stormed around the car, grabbing a large rock from the landscaping as he went. Wrenching open the driver's door, he reached in and placed the rock on the gas pedal. Listening to the engine rev up, he then pulled the shift lever, putting the Avalon into drive.

The driverless Toyota rolled away, bouncing off the wall of the driveway several times as it drove toward Sunset Boulevard. Finally, it pulled out into Sunset –

And Stavros watched with grim satisfaction as it was immediately t-boned by a speeding U-Haul truck.

Behind him, Jeff watched in horror as the whole scene unfolded. "Uh-oh," he muttered. "Oh, I am so fired."

* * *

><p>April 26, 2010.<p>

"_What the hell do you mean, 'that particular cat might already be out of the bag'?_"

Chuck winced at the sound of Woody Woodcomb bellowing through his cell phone. "Sir –"

"_I swear to GOD, Bartowski, if your fucking around has fucked up these negotiations, I am gonna dropkick you into Long Beach Harbor!_"

"Sir, I promise you –"

"_YOU WOULDN'T HAVE TO PROMISE IF YOU KEPT YOUR ZIP-_"

And with that, Chuck hung up. "I don't want us to be interrupted again," he said sourly, tossing the phone to Rick Noble.

Chuck turned to Alexei Volkoff. "Mr. Volkoff, I apologize for the interruption," he said. "And furthermore, please, allow me to apologize for this incident with your daughter. It was certainly never my intent to offend you, and I assure you, I treated Vivian with the utmost resp-"

"Mr. Bartowski," Volkoff interrupted him. "Please, save your apologies."

Now Chuck was starting to feel nervous. "But Mr. Volkoff, I am just trying to assure you that –"

"I really don't care," Volkoff said, cutting him off again. "Mr. Bartowski, my daughter is a twenty-four year old woman. I trust her choices. If she chose to sleep with you, then… you must be a worthwhile individual."

_Huh?_

Chuck frowned. "So, Mr. Volkoff, are you saying that… you aren't… upset?"

Volkoff shrugged. "I may be somewhat peeved that the man I'm negotiating with right now shared my daughter's bed last night… but what father wouldn't be? What's more, you appear to be a young man who is well behaved and not a complete slacker, so… I trust my daughter's judgment."

It was all Chuck could do to not slump over in relief. "Well, thank goodness for that," he sighed. "Now, Mr. Volkoff… how about we buy a hotel?"

* * *

><p><strong>CAST<strong>  
>Chuck Bartowski – Zachary Levi<br>Lou Palone – Rachel Bilson  
>Stavros Demitrios – Theo Alexander<br>Jeff Barnes – Scott Krinsky  
>Woody Woodcomb – Bruce Boxleitner<br>Alexei Volkoff – Timothy Dalton


	9. The Hollywood Memory Tour

May 3rd, 2010.

When she looked back on it, years later, it was a day that Sarah Walker would never, COULD never forget. Of course, she had no idea that morning WHY she would never forget it. She expected it to be a memorable day, but for very different reasons than why it became such a special day in her life.

The rising of the sun was well in the future when Jenny Burton – or Sarah Walker, has she had been calling herself for over a week at this point – left the Monte Carlo Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas, Nevada. The Vegas Strip, however, was bright as day – a bustling, well-lit strip of a street that never sleeps.

On this particular morning, Sarah had dressed herself in a manner that seemed unassuming at first blush, but which she knew tended to turn men into jelly – a combination of a reddish-brown leather jacket, very, VERY tight blue jeans, and a low-cut white blouse. She was quite certain that she could use this very combination to lure Chuck Bartowski.

Opening the driver's door of her black 911, Sarah leaned into the cabin, setting her coffee in the center console cupholder, and then folded her five foot ten inch frame into the sports car. It was always a bit of a pain getting into the car, but once she was in, it was a thrill like none other. The experience of driving the Porsche at remarkably high speeds – as she intended to do on I-15 as she drove across the desert in the middle of the night – tended to be a better experience for her than much of the sex she had had in her life.

The drive across the desert gave Sarah plenty of time to think. She had been asked by both Bryce and Carina during the planning of this heist whether or not it was worth it to pour so much of her life into something that was so clearly a revenge mission.

The answer, as far as Sarah was concerned? Absogoddamnlutely. Woody Woodcomb had wrecked her family and turned her father into a broken man. As a little girl, Jenny Burton had loved her daddy and had felt helpless and impotent when she was unable to do anything for him. As a grown woman, she still loved her father a great deal, and now that she could royally screw Woody Woodcomb, she was damn well going to do so.

Alex McHugh had become Sarah's unlikely ally – and almost protégé – in the matter. It turned out that she was all of twenty-two years old, and was the estranged daughter of a Homeland Security agent – an estrangement that had happened over what she admitted was the stupidest of arguments. "I voted for Barack Obama in 2008," she had explained. "My father voted for John McCain, and I thought he was being an ignorant ass."

Even though her father had been entirely calm and rational about the situation, Alex had herself gone on a raving rant on Election Night decrying her father for the idiot she perceived him to be, and then had just stopped talking to him. A year and a half later, she had come to the realization that she had been perhaps the world's greatest fool, to sever ties with her father over a matter of politics, but felt too ashamed to approach him about it.

Sarah, of course, had spent a great deal of time encouraging Alex to talk to her father. "You'll always regret it if you don't make things right," she had told her. "I can't imagine life without my father."

Alex was going to be Sarah's point person on the entire operation. Her knowledge of computers and her hacking skills gave her an edge that none of the others had, not even Bryce. As a result, once Sarah managed to get hired by Chuck Bartowski – and she had to admit, that particular bit of the plan was still a bit of a crapshoot – Sarah planned to get Chuck to hire Alex into an IT position.

Getting hired was indeed the sticking point, for more than one reason. First of all, Sarah couldn't guarantee that she was going to be hired by Chuck Bartowski. Secondly, even if she did get hired, she couldn't guarantee that it would be to a position that would give her the access she needed. Admittedly, if either of these things happened, there realistically was no loss on her part – she would just go back to Wyoming and try to figure things out from a different angle.

But the third factor, which was perhaps also the most troubling, was the uneasiness Sarah was beginning to feel about the idea of exploiting Chuck Bartowski. The more she researched him, the more she was beginning to realize that he was definitely not at all like Woody Woodcomb. He seemed to be a genuinely nice guy who took the job simply because he knew he could do it well. The story about his fiancé, Jill Roberts, had made Sarah cringe, and then, when pictures of Chuck and Vivian MacArthur had popped up on TMZ the previous Monday, she had legitimately felt sorry for him. She couldn't believe that the first time he'd enjoyed a woman's company in a year, it got splashed all over the Internet.

That night, she had dropped to her knees and prayed for the first time in a very long while, if only to thank God that she was not herself a celebrity.

As Sarah passed through Victorville, she noticed that the desert was beginning to give way to cookie-cutter subdivisions. When she was a kid, this part of the desert had been just desert. Victorville had been a tiny little town. Now, it was a massive eyesore on the Mohave Desert, full of absolutely insane people who would commute as far away as Mission Viejo for work on a daily basis.

Before long, Sarah found herself passing through Rancho Cucamonga and Ontario, into the Inland Empire. She was still a good hour away from West Hollywood, but she was beginning to feel a little nervous. Very shortly, she would be facing Chuck Bartowski, in the Viper Hotel and Casino, hoping that somehow things would work out just right and allow her to put her heist into motion.

Carina and her CAT Squad had expressed serious doubts over the entire plan hinging on whether or not Sarah could get Chuck Bartowski to give her preferential treatment. Bryce, Alex, and surprisingly enough, Cole Barker, had all backed her up – although Sarah was pretty certain that Cole's reasoning for supporting her was that he was of the opinion that she had, as he had said, "magnificent breasts," and he was fairly certain she could melt Chuck Bartowski's brain with them if need be.

Before too long, the Inland Empire faded into East Los Angeles. Sarah went from I-10 to US 101, and then she found herself traversing a street that had long been engrained in her mind – Sunset Boulevard.

Unbidden, memories of Sarah's childhood began to return to her. Memories of breakfast every morning in the dining room of the Chateau Marmont. Memories of elementary school. Memories of Dodgers games with her dad.

With the exception of the trips to Chavez Ravine to see the Dodgers play, she had hated pretty much every last moment of it.

But she didn't hate EVERY memory of Los Angeles. There was one, several years after her father had fled to Wyoming in disgrace, that never failed to bring a smile to her face. It was the glow of the Amoeba Records sign, as she passed Cahuenga Boulevard, that brought back one of her simultaneously fondest and most embarrassing memories…

* * *

><p>March 14th, 1996.<p>

Jenny Burton was sixteen years old, and a sophomore at the Wentworth Military Academy in Missouri. Her life was rigidly structured, and the downtime she experienced was limited. This was by design, because the academy didn't want any of their cadets straying into trouble.

However, like any other school, Wentworth did have a spring break, for which they did allow their cadets to leave – although each cadet who was leaving the school grounds for spring break had to sign a very strict "Conduct and Honor Pledge". Any cadet who broke the pledge was subject to immediately dismissal from the academy – and for many of them, that would spell disaster, or worse, a trip to jail.

Jenny, however, was unlikely to get into any trouble. As it was, she had merely taken a trip out to San Diego with a few of her friends – the first time she had been back to California in nearly seven years. And it had been enjoyable so far – but she had another reason for coming to California.

On Thursday of spring break, Jenny had convinced her friends to drive up to Los Angeles for the day, on the pretext of wanting to go to Hollywood. Of course, this had been before the renewal of Hollywood and Highland, so Hollywood was pretty much a dump. The only attraction was the Walk of Stars.

Nonetheless, Jenny had been able to convince her friends, and had at one point slipped away, bound for Tower Records. The library at Wentworth Academy had recently begun providing access to the Internet for its students, and while there wasn't really much to be found there, Jenny had accidentally stumbled upon something which nearly blew her mind at Tower's fledgling website.

And so, on this particular day, she was bound for a book signing at Tower. Beyond that, she really didn't have a clue what she was going to do.

Half an hour after arriving at Tower Records, she was standing in line, clutching the book in her hands. _In a Hail of Bullets_, the cover's title said, with the cover art making it look like the book had been shot repeatedly. _By Richard Castle_.

When Jenny had discovered on Tower's website that Richard Castle had written a book, she almost couldn't believe her eyes. Geeky Ricky Castle was a published author? And not just a published author, but one who was doing a book tour with Tower Records?

When Jenny and her father had fled West Hollywood seven years earlier, Ricky Castle had been an awkward eighteen year old who was struggling to get published in one of the pulp fiction magazines. Because his mother had publicly supported Jack Burton, Ricky had essentially been banned from the Sunset Strip, and had retreated to the Chateau.

Jenny had heard rumors about him moving to New York, but nothing concrete had ever come to her attention. But when she found out about the book…

Well, in spite of his awkwardness, Jenny seemed to recall her nine year old self having a certain touch of fondness for Ricky Castle.

As she got closer to the table, Jenny finally got a glimpse of Ricky – or "Rick" as she could hear his distinctive voice saying – and…

_Oh, MY he grew up nicely_, she thought, feeling her pulse quicken. The face was the same, but gone was the geeky haircut he once had, and he was no longer much too tall for his weight. Indeed, he was quite the well developed twenty-five year old man.

Finally, Jenny's turn came, and she stepped up to the table where Rick Castle sat. He didn't even look up as she set her book down. "Who should I make it out to?" he asked.

She opened her mouth, but it had gone dry. When she didn't respond, he looked up – and his eyes went wide. "Jenny?" he asked incredulously. "Jenny Burton?"

Even though Jenny couldn't see her face, she could feel it turn bright red. "Hi, Ricky," she mumbled, looking at the floor.

Rick Castle, however, suffered no such embarrassment. Standing up from his chair, he rounded the table, and engulfed Jenny in a bear hug. "I can't believe it!" he exclaimed. "I haven't seen you in… in years!"

Jenny had not been expecting a hug, and so she thought she was going to pass out when Rick embraced her. Finally, her brain kicked in, and she forced herself to breathe. As Rick relaxed the hug, she could feel herself relax a little bit as well, and she finally worked up the courage to look up at him.

"How have you been?" he asked enthusiastically, ignoring the other people in line. "I heard you moved to Wyoming. How do you like it up there? How's your dad doing? My God, you must be, what, sixt-"

At that moment, something possessed Jenny Burton. She knew it was a bad idea, but she did it anyway. She had wanted to do it when she was a little girl and Ricky Castle was a geeky teenager, and she DEFINITELY wanted to do it now.

So she kissed Rick Castle – and immediately, he froze.

After a moment, he regained his composure, and gently pushed Jenny away. "That… that's really not a good idea," he said softly.

No need to tell Jenny. The full realization of what she had done came crashing down on her. "Oh… oh God," she whispered. "I'm so sorry…"

"Richard?"

The woman's voice caused both of their heads to whip toward the door, where a rather annoyed looking red-headed woman stood, holding the hand of a little girl who was the spitting image of her mother – and who looked to be about three years old.

"Richard, what the hell is going on?" the woman asked.

"Jenny," Rick said quietly, "this is my wife, Meredith, and my daughter, Alexis." He looked over at Meredith. "Meredith, this is Jack Burton's daughter, Jenny."

* * *

><p>To that day, Sarah Walker could still remember the way she had felt in the split second when she first kissed Rick Castle – before she realized just how stupid she was being, before he realized what was going on.<p>

She had felt like she was on top of the world.

And truthfully, given the way Rick's star had risen, she could think of worse guys to have been her first kiss – even if it had been a dramatically bad idea.

Of course, she could never forget what had happened next. After Rick had introduced his wife and his daughter to her, the full enormity of the truly stupid decision Jenny had just made hit her like a punch to the gut – and she vomited all over Tower Records.

Fortunately, Rick Castle had been very understanding and had smoothed things over for Jenny both with his wife and with the management of Tower Records. He had even bought her copy of _In a Hail of Bullets_ for her, and had signed it, "To Jenny Burton – the most adorable girl to ever escape the Sunset Strip. With love, Richard Rodgers."

Most people Jenny knew had no idea what that meant. But she knew that Rodgers was Rick's real last name, and it carried a certain special significance for her.

The book had become almost her good luck charm – so much so that Sarah Walker had made damn sure she had it along with her on this trip. It sat in her one of her suitcases, in the 911's trunk.

As Sarah came back to reality, she realized that her little trip down memory lane had brought her almost to the driveway of the Viper. "Dammit," she muttered, cranking the wheel over to the left and taking the turn into the Viper's driveway at MUCH too high a speed.

As Sarah brought the 911 to a stop behind a silver Crown Vic in the driveway, she saw in her periphery somebody who VERY much resembled the pictures she had studied of Chuck Bartowski jogging her way. Before she could take a closer look, however, the driver's door of her Porsche was wrenched open.

"What the HELL was that all about?" the particularly angry looking woman standing next to Sarah's car shouted at her.

Sarah quickly assessed the situation. Gun and badge on the woman's belt. Obviously law enforcement. Still pissing Sarah off. _Let's see how much antagonism I can get away with_.

"I'm sorry, since when does the valet criticize the driving of the casino's customers?" Sarah asked the other woman, standing up out of the Porsche, her height and her heels giving her just enough of a height advantage to look down at the cop.

The shorter woman turned a dark shade of red and yanked her badge off of her belt. "Well, when the valet is the LOS ANGELES COUNTY SHERIFF –"

"Okay, okay now!" A new, male voice broke into the sheriff's angry declaration, and the lanky, curly-haired man who was mostly definitely Chuck Bartowski stepped between the sheriff and Sarah Walker. "Let's maintain calm, shall we?" he said, his question aimed mostly at the sheriff.

Turning toward Sarah, he cast an appreciative eye over her car, and then looked at her. "Nice car," he said, his appreciative eye clearly not missing a beat as it swept across Sarah's body. "Can I help you?"

Sarah glared at the sheriff, and then looked at Chuck, putting a smile on her face.

Realistically, the smile wasn't that difficult. Chuck Bartowski was definitely a pleasant sight to behold, and somebody who seemed remarkably easy to smile at.

"My name's Sarah Walker," she said. "I'm looking for Charles Bartowski. Do you know where I can find him?"

* * *

><p><strong>CAST<strong>

Yvonne Strahovski as Sarah Walker  
>Nathan Fillion as Rick Castle<br>Darby Stanchfield as Meredith Castle  
>Stana Katic as Kate Beckett<br>Zachary Levi as Chuck Bartowski

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's note: <strong>__And so I've finally come back to the end of the first chapter, which means that the bulk of the back story/prologue has passed, and I'm ready to move on to the first act.  
><em>_As many of you know, I've been writing this while working overnight shifts at a hotel these last few weeks. I have only two more overnights left at the hotel, and I hope to turn out a chapter during each of those.  
><em>_However, from this point forward, I will probably only generally put out one chapter a week. The reason for that is, I will be VERY busy for the next six weeks – I have a four week internship in New York City that starts next Monday, with a week at a church convention in Nashville between the first two and last two weeks; once that's over, I'll be spending a week at home in Phoenix.  
><em>_After I come back to North Carolina, I have plans to visit friends in Atlanta and the Outer Banks, and then, I should have a couple of weeks of down time before my Master's Degree program resumes on August 31__st__. Hopefully, during that week, I'll be able to turn out more than one chapter a week, but I imagine that once school goes back, one chapter a week is going to be my max.  
><em>_Now, you might be thinking that the end of August is a very long-term outlook for this story, but here's the thing – I expect this story will almost certainly be the longest one I've ever written. In fact, if it goes the way I think it will, I will probably not wrap this story up until some time around Christmas.  
><em>_But hey… maybe that means it will be fresh in people's minds when nomination time rolls around for the Awesome Awards…_


	10. Handcuffs Just Excite Me

_**Author's note:**__ I would like to apologize for going two weeks between chapters here. Immediately after posting the last chapter, I ended up having to go on a crash diet for two days thanks to a mishap involving the US Navy, a miscalibrated scale, and me having to unexpectedly drop three and a half pounds in forty-eight hours. During that time, I swear to God, I started having hallucinations of Chick-Fil-A while consuming only green tea and Naked Juice; following that, I had to relocate to New York City until the end of July; after that, I got sick (I'm pretty sure as a result of nuking my immune system for two days and then immediately thereafter spending twelve hours on the Amtrak Carolinian Limited), and then I had to do a week of prep work for this day camp I'm interning at. Thus, this is the first time I've had a moment to sit down with my __**BLOODY BRAND NEW LAPTOP **__(cheers!) and christen it with my first chapter written on it.  
>Enjoy!<em>

* * *

><p>May 5th, 2010<p>

It turned out to be shockingly easy for Sarah Walker to get a job with Woodcomb Hollywood Entertainment, LLC. And not just any job – she was able to get the position of Director of Security for the Viper Hotel and Casino. Her direct supervisor was Chuck Bartowski, although she was expected to play nice with Vicki Dunwoody, who was the lead agent for what was known as the GRETA Team – the General Readiness – Emergencies, Tactics, and Accidents Team – which basically oversaw all security for the entire Woodcomb Sunset Strip operation.

And in retrospect, her hiring for this position made a fair amount of sense. She had given Chuck Bartowski her actual _curriculum vitae_ – although she had, before handing it over, made sure to contact each one of her references and let them know that they would be contacted by somebody asking about Sarah Walker. The reason for that, she told them, was that the name "Jennifer Burton" carried with it connotations of the fallen Burton casino empire, not to mention the Ranger School debacle, and she preferred to gain employments on her actual merits, not on the strengths or weaknesses of her name alone.

Thus, when Chuck had contacted the Smithsonian Institution about the security protocols developed for their Udvar-Hazy complex as a result of a simulated security breach, he was told that yes, absolutely, Sarah Walker was INDEED the woman he wanted watching over security at the Viper Hotel and Casino. He was told that it would essentially be criminally negligent for her to walk away.

As a result, Sarah Walker had a job, and it was a job that would make it almost childishly simple to put into play her plan to rob Woody Woodcomb blind. That was the good part.

The bad part was that her first day on the job was Cinco de Mayo.

Cinco de Mayo, at a casino, in southern California.

Sarah supposed it could have been worse. She could have been at the Bastille. On July 14th, 1789. That would have been worse.

But not by much.

It was only 7:30 PM, and already, the massive bank of LCD monitors lining the south wall of Sarah's office was covered in red. Red spots for each room that had generated a complaint, red spots for each location where a staff member had reported some sort of issue, and red spots GALORE across the bars and the pits. In fact, one blackjack pit was completely overlaid with red, as a result of some drunken jackass San Antonio Spurs fans getting drunk and going berserk as the Spurs lost to the Phoenix Suns in game two of their semi-final playoff series.

What the hell were Spurs fans doing in a Los Angeles casino on a Wednesday, anyway?

Anyway, Sarah had ordered that pit closed for the rest of the night. It would take that long to account for every chip, card, and dollar in that pit anyway, and one of the tables had been basically turned into firewood to boot.

Also, those moron Texans were going to be spending the night as guests of Kate Beckett and the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department.

Kate Beckett, it turned out, was actually a very pleasant person, as long as your first encounter with her in the morning did not consist of you speeding up in a Porsche. In fact, she had been one of Sarah's first visitors that morning.

* * *

><p>"Good morning, Director… Walker, was it?"<p>

Sarah looked up from her desk, to see Kate Beckett standing in her doorway. "Yes, Sarah Walker. And you're Sheriff Kate Beckett?"

Kate nodded, a rueful smile crossing her face. "Indeed I am, and I'm afraid we didn't get off to the best start on Monday morning."

"Entirely my fault," Sarah replied, standing up from her desk and crossing her office. "I provoked you – I rolled up way too fast in my car, and then I disarmed you. Not something to make any law enforcement officer happy."

Kate shrugged, taking Sarah's offered hand and shaking it. "Perhaps, but I was already in a bad mood, thanks to Morgan Grimes and his daily sidewalk stunts."

Sarah grimaced. "Ah, yes, the thorn in the flesh of the Viper Casino – the Chumash who the Chumash forgot."

"Pretty much," Kate replied, sitting down in front of Sarah's desk as Sarah returned to her office chair. "Anyway, since you and I will probably be communicating on a fairly regular basis, I figured I'd drop in and say hello."

"I appreciate that," Sarah said. "Can I offer you something to drink?"

Beckett snorted. "Got any tequila?"

The grimace on Sarah's face changed to a grin. "No," she replied, "but…"

Turning to the sideboard behind her desk, Sarah picked up the sterling silver coffee pot sitting on a warmer. "May I offer you a cup of fresh Kona, with a healthy dose of Bailey's?"

"Oh good Lord," Beckett laughed. "I was joking. Apparently you aren't. Doesn't it seem like it's a little early in the day for Irish coffee?"

Sarah shook her head. "Absolutely not. It's Cinco de Mayo."

The smile faded from Beckett's face. "God, you're right." She sighed. "Yeah, I'll take a cup."

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes later, the two women were on their second cup of Irish coffee, and both were feeling quite mellow, when Beckett's phone rang. "Beckett," she said, picking it up before it could ring a second time.<p>

Sarah noticed, as the sheriff answered her phone, that her face tensed up – almost as if she was expecting bad news. And given that Beckett was the sheriff of one of the most insane counties in the country, with her responsibility including a casino strip, and that before that she had been a New York homicide detective, Sarah could understand WHY she tensed up. However, as soon as the caller identified themselves, Beckett's face relaxed.

"Alexis!" she said, a smile crossing her face. "I can't wait to see you!" She was silent for a moment. "Of COURSE we can go to Rodeo. We do every time you're here, don't we?" She was silent for another moment, and then the smile faded. "Wait, what do you mean, your father isn't there?"

Beckett fell silent again, and then rolled her eyes and blew out an exasperated sigh. "No, don't call a cab. Just sit tight, and I'll have Deputy Sherman come get you, alright?" The smile reappeared on Beckett's face. "Yes, I'm aware you have the world's biggest crush on Ben. Please don't molest my deputy, okay? You ARE underage, after all."

Beckett was silent one last time. "Okay, Alexis. See you soon. Love you."

And with that, she hung up her phone. "Sorry about that," she said to Sarah. "That was my step-daughter, Alexis. Apparently, my husband has forgotten that he was supposed to be picking her up at LAX this morning."

_Alexis_. Why was that name setting off alarm bells in Sarah's head?

"Your husband?" she asked Kate.

Kate nodded. "Yeah, I'm his third wife, and he swears, his last." A soft smile crept onto her lips. "I'm certain he's right on that. I love him, I love his daughter, she loves me." She looked up at Sarah. "Alexis is his daughter from his first marriage. Believe it or not, I'm married to the mystery writer, Rick Castle."

Sarah's breath caught, and she had to be very careful to maintain her calm façade. "I see," she said. "That's… nice."

* * *

><p>Rick Castle had been up writing since his wife left for work that morning. He had had an inspiration for the storyline for the new Derek Storm graphic novel, and he had just gone to town on it.<p>

Rick had a tendency to lose track of time when he was writing, so when his phone rang just after 10:00 AM, it sort of startled him. He jumped back so violently that his chair tipped over backward, dumping him unceremoniously onto the floor. Reaching up, he groped around for the phone, finally locating it and pressing the speakerphone button. "Hello?"

"_Hello, Richard_," the rather annoyed voice of his wife said. "_Have you forgotten something this morning?_"

Rick frowned. Had he forgotten something? "Um… I haven't brushed my teeth yet?"

"_Slightly more important than that._"

"Uh…" Rick shook his head. "Honestly, Kate, I really don't…"

"_Perhaps a package from New York?_"

"A package from New… oh, SHIT." Rick jumped up off the floor and grabbed his car keys, forgetting entirely about the phone.

"_Rick, I'm sending Ben Sherman to pick her up… Rick? You're not there anymore, are you?_"

* * *

><p>Sarah Walker was very carefully maintaining a straight face as Kate Beckett talked to her husband on the phone. This marriage could prove very inconvenient to her plans. If the sheriff was married to somebody who could damn well easily identify her…<p>

_I may have to head this off at the pass,_ Sarah thought. _I MIGHT have to go to Rick and see if I can convince him that his family was just as badly hurt by Woody Woodcomb as mine, and see if I can get him to at least keep his mouth shut, if not help us_.

"You're not there anymore, are you?" Kate asked her phone, the other end of the call clearly no longer there. With a sigh, she pressed the end button. "Men," she said, shaking her head.

"Trust me, I know," Sarah grumbled. "One boyfriend turns out to be gay, and it sours your perspective for life."

Kate looked at Sarah, and then grinned. "Okay, you win," she laughed. "If you'll excuse me, I need to make a couple more phone calls."

"Please," said Sarah, adding, "More coffee?" as Kate began to dial.

"Oh, God, yes," Kate replied, pressing the call button. She put the phone to her ear, and then a moment later –

"Ben? Kate Beckett."

"_Sheriff Beckett. To what do I owe the pleasure in the middle of breakfast?_"

"Ben, I know you're not scheduled to be on shift until 2:00, but I need you to get down to LAX and pick up Alexis. My absent-minded husband apparently forgot that his own flesh and blood was coming in this morning."

There was silence on the other end for a moment. Finally, Ben Sherman replied, "_Sheriff, really? I mean, I swear to God, Alexis undresses me with her eyes every time she sees me._"

Kate smiled. "Ben, you're a twenty-nine year old man. I'm sure you can handle it."

"_Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine. I mean, she's definitely not bad-looking, but it's kind of cree…_" Sherman's voice trailed off as he realized what he had just said. "_I mean… you know what I mean._"

Kate's smile turned into a frown. "I do, Deputy Sherman, and for your sake, I'm going to forget about the fact that you even for one second thought that a sixteen year old girl is attractive."

"_Thank you, Sheriff Beckett. Do you want me to take a black and white?_"

Kate hadn't been planning to have Ben take a sheriff's department car, but after that comment, under no circumstances did she want Ben and Alexis in his BMW together. "Yes. And put her in the back."

* * *

><p>Deputy John Cooper was on duty by himself today. It was the rare day that both he and Sherman pulled U-Boat duty, but it happened from time to time.<p>

On this particular day, Cooper had decided he was going to fill his speeding ticket quota for the month of May a little early. Yeah, sure, the L.A. County Sheriff's Department denied that there was any such quota, but if Cooper didn't turn in a certain number of speeding citations per month, Kate Beckett would tear a strip off of him.

And so, there Cooper sat, hiding on Rosewood Avenue, just west of La Cienega Boulevard, still within county jurisdiction, when the bright blue Dodge Viper went blasting by, well in excess of 80 miles per hour. "Well, well, Mr. Castle," Cooper said with a grin. "This should be interesting."

Reaching out, he grabbed his radio. "Alpha-one, this is A-forty-three. I've got a blue Dodge Viper, southbound on La Cienega, demonstrating gross speed. Should I pursue?"

"_Affirmative, A-forty-three,_" the disgruntled voice of Kate Beckett replied. "_Please go to encrypted channel zulu twelve_."

"Copy," Cooper replied. "Radio, show A-forty-three in pursuit of blue Dodge Viper, southbound on La Cienega, code three."

With his report in, Cooper pulled the Dodge Charger out onto La Cienega, flipped on his lights and siren, and took off after the Viper, which had just crossed Beverly. Reaching down, he flipped his radio over to the channel Beckett had indicated. "Alright, Kate, what's up Rick's ass this morning?"

Beckett sighed on the other end of the channel. "_Alexis flew in this morning, and Rick totally forgot. I told him not to worry about it – I sent Ben to pick her up – but he apparently wasn't in the room by the time I said that._"

Cooper chuckled. "You sent Ben to pick her up? Kate, Alexis undresses him with her eyes every time she sees him."

Beckett was quiet for a moment. "_You know, I swear, if you and Ben don't stop making remarks like that, we're gonna have a problem._"

"More of a problem with Ben than me, Katie," Cooper replied mockingly.

"_God save me from smartass gay cops_," Beckett grumbled. "_Do me a favor and have Rick's Viper towed, would you?_"

"Gladly," Cooper said, pulling his Charger to a stop behind the now-stopped Viper, just south of Wilshire. "Talk to you later."

Flipping his radio back over to the police band, Cooper radioed in once more. "A-forty-three, show me stopped at La Cienega and Wilshire, southwest corner," he said.

Getting out of the car, Cooper walked up to the driver's door of the Viper, hand on the butt of his gun. "Kate put you up to this, didn't she?" Castle asked sourly, before Cooper could get one word out.

"Good morning, Mr. Castle," Cooper replied, a grin on his face. "I need you to step out of the car, please, place your hands on the hood, and spread your legs apart."

"John –"

Cooper cut Castle's protest off before he could get more than one word out. "Mr. Castle, please don't make me take drastic measures."

Castle gave Cooper a dirty look, but complied with his orders. "You like doing this shit, don't you, John?" he asked bitterly as he stood next to his car, being frisked.

"Well, you know what they say, Mr. Castle," Cooper deadpanned. "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but handcuffs just excite me."

* * *

><p>Sarah Walker's takeaway from that morning had been that she didn't want to ever mess with Kate Beckett. The sheriff had practically threatened one of her deputies with death for making a sideways comment about her step-daughter, and then had her own husband arrested and his car towed for demonstration of gross speed. "However," Kate Beckett had told Sarah, "I'll make it up to him later… in a way that only I can."<p>

That had given Sarah a mental image she didn't need just then. It might have been one that she would've enjoyed ten years earlier, but one which in 2011 just served to make her think that there was no way she would be able to recruit Rick Castle.

Of course, the rest of Sarah's conversation with Kate Beckett led her to believe that there was no love lost between the sheriff and Woody Woodcomb, and that the only reason Beckett kept a civil relationship with Woodcomb Hollywood was that she and Chuck Bartowski were good friends. So, Sarah thought that maybe, just maybe, if Kate Beckett somehow found out about what was going on, Sarah could convince her that it might be in Los Angeles County's best interest or Kate to look the other way.

Nonetheless, this was a piece of information she needed to share with her team. If she didn't, it could be potentially disastrous.

So, with the casino's security activity seemingly at a lull for the moment, Sarah turned away from the wall of monitors, looking out her window onto the Strip. Reaching down to the sideboard below the window, she picked up her cell phone, and dialed a number from memory.

"Bryce?" she said a minute later. "Yeah, we might have a slight issue. The Los Angeles County Sheriff?"

She sighed. "Turns out I had a major crush on her husband when I was sixteen."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Coming in the next chapter…<strong>_

The Homeland Security agent who followed Vicki Dunwoody into Chuck's office appeared to be the type who could intimidate you with nothing more than a stare or a grunt. He had to be ex-military, and definitely not the type of person you would want to pick a bar fight with.

"Good morning," Chuck said, offering his hand. "Chuck Bartowski, chief operating officer for Woodcomb Hollywood Entertainment. How can I help you this morning, Agent…"

"Casey," the man growled. "John Casey. And you can help me by telling me whether or not your boss is laundering money for the Goya Cartel."

* * *

><p><strong>CAST<strong>

Yvonne Strahovski as Sarah Walker  
>Stana Katic as Kate Beckett<br>Nathan Fillion as Rick Castle  
>Ben McKenzie as Ben Sherman<br>Michael Cudlitz as John Cooper  
>Zachary Levi as Chuck Bartowski<br>Stacy Keibler as Vicki Dunwoody  
>Adam Baldwin as John Casey<p> 


	11. Here Comes Major Dad

_**Author's note:**__ Once again, my apologies for the two and a half weeks since the last chapter. Turns out that when you're the assistant director of a day camp AND you attend a national church convention for five days, you don't get very much time for writing. However, given that it's hotter than the blazes of hellfire and damnation in New York City today, I decided that I was just going to go park myself in a nice, air-conditioned Starbucks for a few hours and do some writing. Enjoy!_

* * *

><p>May 7, 2010<p>

Friday. For most people in the great City of Los Angeles, Friday was a day for rejoicing. Friday was a day for fun after work, for heading full tilt into the weekend. Indeed, it was Friday, Friday, and Los Angeles was gonna get down on Friday.

Well, except for Chuck Bartowski. For him, Friday was probably the busiest day of the week – mostly because anywhere between ten and twenty percent of all those Angelenos looking to cut loose this weekend were going to wind up somewhere in one of the casinos which he oversaw. Thirteen casinos meant twenty-one restaurants, twenty-nine bars, one "gentlemen's club" (Chuck had never set foot in THAT particular establishment during business hours, and intended to never do so), and more gaming tables than Chuck could keep track of. And beginning in about half an hour, all of those would start to fill up, and by seven o'clock, would all be chock full.

Fortunately, for the first time since the Viper had opened, Chuck was not in the least bit concerned about the flagship casino's security for this evening and this weekend. Sarah Walker was perhaps the most promising person to walk into the Viper's security department… well, ever. The director of the Udvar-Hazy Institute in Washington had spoken of her in absolutely glowing terms, and as far as Chuck was concerned, if the director of a SMITHSONIAN museum was happy to recommend Sarah for the job, then she must be the right person for it. After all, _Transformers 2_ and _Night at the Museum 2_ aside, the Smithsonian museums were supposed to be among the most secure institutions in the world.

Of course, even after interviewing Sarah Walker and running down all her references – and there were many – Chuck had still taken the time to have a thorough, independent background check done on her. This was standard procedure for him – any time he was hiring somebody at director level or above, he paid a team of former FBI agents to find out everything possible about the new hire. Sarah Walker's file was a thick one, but there hadn't been anything BAD in there, per se. There had been one item that raised Chuck's eyebrows a bit, but he had brushed it off – and made damn sure to never let Woody Woodcomb see the file.

Chuck had a bit of time to kill before the afternoon rush started, so he was looking over some schematics he damn sure wasn't supposed to have. Not that they were ACTUAL schematics – the schematics he was looking at for his father's Intersect computer were ones that Chuck had drawn up based on his memories of looking at the computer. Chuck had eidetic memory, so he could remember every detail of the computer exactly as he had seen it.

It was a tough nut to crack. The Intersect was cobbled together out of so many pieces from thirty years' worth of computers that Chuck wasn't surprised that it had issues coming online. However, his father had written the code around the way the different pieces worked together, which meant that it had to run "as-is". The problem with the Intersect clearly lay in an issue with the computer as a whole, and not just any one part.

The thing was, Chuck felt like he was on the verge of figuring it out. It was as if the answer lay just beyond his fingertips. If he could just determine that one last mysterious variable –

"_Mr. Bartowski…_"

Chuck sighed as his intercom came to life. Was the rush starting early tonight? Were the idiots already causing trouble in his bars? He reached out and pushed the intercom button on his phone. "Go ahead, Vicki."

"_Mr. Bartowski, there's a gentleman from the Department of Homeland Security out here demanding to speak with you. He doesn't have an appointment – would you like me to have Director Walker escort him out?_"

Chuck smiled. Ah, Victoria Dunwoody. Former Israeli Special Forces (she had been born and raised in Brooklyn by immigrants from Israel, and the whispered rumors were that her father was one of the Mossad agents who had been part of the team that took Israel's vengeance upon the terrorists responsible for the Munich Olympics massacre), she believed that the best answer was always the one that involved her getting to exert force on somebody.

"That'll be unnecessary, Vicki," Chuck replied. "However, if you could offer to have Director Walker take the meeting –"

"_Now listen here, Bartowski,_" an unfamiliar man's voice suddenly growled through the intercom. "_I didn't drag my ass out here to talk to your assistant in charge of making sure the gamblers have their drinks. I came here to talk to you, and I expect you to do your duty as a goddamn American patriot and open that door._"

Well. Chuck was quite taken aback. This was not what he was expecting, and he was definitely not addressed that way by anybody. "Uh, Vicki, go ahead and show him in," Chuck finally told her.

A moment later, the door to Chuck's outer office swung open, admitting Vicki Dunwoody. The Homeland Security agent who followed Vicki into Chuck's office appeared to be the type who could intimidate you with nothing more than a stare or a grunt. He had to be ex-military, and definitely not the type of person you would want to pick a bar fight with.

"Good afternoon," Chuck said, standing and offering his hand. "Chuck Bartowski, chief operating officer for Woodcomb Hollywood Entertainment. How can I help you this morning, Agent…"

"Casey," the man growled. "John Casey. And you can help me by telling me whether or not your boss is laundering money for the Goya Cartel."

Chuck's eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. "Wait a… Goya Car… WHAT?"

Agent Casey turned to glare at Vicki Dunwoody. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to speak to Mr. Bartowski."

She shrugged. "Alright."

"PRIVATELY."

Vicki's stance grew instantly defensive. "That I DO have a problem with," she replied. "I don't care if you're the head of the President's Secret Service detail, sir, you are in MY territory. I am responsible for Mr. Bartowski's safety, and if you don't like my being in here, you can quite frankly suck my –"

"Alright, alright, thank you Vicki," Chuck interrupted, hastily cutting off the chief GRETA agent before she could say anything stupid. "Agent Casey, anything you say to me, you can say in front of Ms. Dunwoody. I trust her implicitly."

John Casey grunted and rolled his eyes, but did not break off his glare at Chuck.

"It's alright, Mr. Bartowski," Vicki finally relented. "I can wait in the outer office."

Chuck sighed. "Thank you, Vicki," he said with a grimace as she departed his office. "Now, Agent Casey, if you'd take a seat, I believe we can discuss this. Can I offer you something to drink? Water, Coke, coffee?"

"You have Diet Mountain Dew?"

"Sorry," Chuck replied, shaking his head. "Exclusive beverage contract with Coca-Cola for all of Woodcomb Hollywood. No Pepsi products on the property, except those which guests bring in."

"Well, I sure as hell am not drinking that corrosive goat piss they call Diet Coke," Casey growled. "However, if you can give me water that actually came from somewhere in America, I will be content with that."

Now THAT actually gave Chuck pause. "Uh…" Looking down, he picked up his phone, and then dialed the direct line to the kitchen at Angeles Churrascaria.

"_¿Hola?_"

"Uh, Señorita Palone, por favor."

The voice on the other end was silent for a moment, and then suspiciously asked, "_¿Quien es?_"

"Señor Bartowski."

And the next thing Chuck heard was the phone clattering against the wall, as the person who had answered clearly ran off in search of Lou Palone. As Chuck waited for the hotel's executive chef to come to the phone, he was acutely aware of John Casey glaring at him. Apparently, speaking in Spanish had not endeared him any to this clearly gung-ho Captain America type.

"_Chuck?_" he heard over the phone.

_Finally_, Chuck thought. "Lou, hey. Do you happen to know what types of bottled water the hotel generally stocks?"

"_Uh… Perrier, Evian, San Pelegrino, Fiji… why?_"

None of those were from America. "Well… this might sound stupid, but do we have any water anywhere that was bottled in the United States?"

Lou was silent for a moment. "Lou?"

"_Are you serious?_"

"I'll explain later," Chuck sighed. "Do we?"

"_Well, I mean, the gift shops probably have Smart Water or something like that – wait a second! The Starbucks in the lobby has Ethos! That's American, I know that for sure._"

"Thank goodness," Chuck breathed. "Thanks, Lou. I owe you."

He could almost hear her smile at the other end. "_Hey, no problem. Although, I might have an idea of how I want to collect... or would Alexei Volkoff have a problem with that?_"

"Why would Alexei Volk – oh, mother FUCKER," Chuck groaned. He hadn't so much as sent a text to Vivian MacArthur in a week. One more thing to concern himself with.

Lou giggled. "_Apparently you have some issues,_" she said. "_Not that that surprises anybody, but I'll let you go take care of them_."

"Yeah, thanks," Chuck groaned, reaching down and hanging up the phone. Pulling out his cell phone, he realized that John Casey had actually begun tapping his foot. Trying to not break out in a sweat, Chuck quickly typed out a text message to Morgan – GO TO LBY SBUCKS BUY ETHOS WATER GIVE TO VICKI D. TELL HER I KNOW WHY.

"Alright, your water should be on its way shortly," Chuck said to John Casey, who looked about ready to blow a blood vessel. "I apologize for the delay."

"Uh-huh," Casey grunted, clearly not convinced. "So, are you ready to actually pay attention, or do I need to use single syllable words?"

Chuck raised an eyebrow. "Well, Agent Casey," he responded, "I'm pretty certain that I can handle the big concepts. You know, graduating from Stanford _summa cum laude_ is something that not too many of us are able to do."

"Stanford," Casey snorted. "Liberal left coast pansies."

"Okay, Mr. Sunshine," Chuck shot back, his patience finally exhausted. "I would appreciate it if you would just tell me why you're here, or I'll tell Vicki that she can take your Annapolis-educated, Quantico-trained Neanderthal ass directly out of my office."

Oddly enough, that statement didn't upset Casey, but rather caused a look of – was that grudging respect? – to grow on his face. "Maybe I underestimated you," he said. "You pegged me as a Marine that quickly?"

"It's the swagger, Agent Casey," Chuck sighed. "Now can we PLEASE get down to business?"

Casey nodded. Setting his briefcase on Chuck's desk, he opened it, opened a laptop computer inside of it, and typed something into the computer. "What you are about to see is code-word classified," he informed Chuck. "I have been granted permission by the director of the National Security Agency to show it to you for this meeting, and this meeting only. Any disclosure of the information contained herein would be a breach of national security and a violation of 18 USC 2381, and you will be subject to full prosecution under applicable laws."

Chuck frowned. "And to what exactly does 18 USC 2381 pertain?" he asked.

Casey cocked his head. "Treason," he said mildly.

Chuck could practically feel his face go pale. "Uh, okay," he replied with a gulp. "Well, I, uh, I'll keep my mouth shut."

Casey nodded, and then turned the briefcase around. "This is Alejandro Goya," he explained as Chuck took in the face on the laptop. "If you'll scroll down, you'll see the parts of the intelligence file that I can show you. Even with temporary clearance, there are parts that had to be redacted."

Chuck took in the face on the screen. "Alejandro Goya," he muttered. "Isn't he the deposed president of Costa Gravas?"

"Affirmative," Casey replied. "After the democratically elected representatives of the people kicked his scumbag ass out, he went into the narcotics business in southern Mexico. It seems he's been remarkably successful."

"I'd say," Chuck breathed, whistling as he saw some of the monetary figures on the screen. "Good God, I didn't realize that the United States had this bad a cocaine habit."

"The United States?" Casey replied with a wry laugh. "Mr. Bartowski, the Goya Cartel only operates in California."

Chuck looked up, astonished. "You're shittin' me."

"Sad to say, no I'm not," John Casey said. "California does, in fact, consume that much cocaine on an annual basis." He frowned. "In fact, I'm pretty sure Lindsey Lohan probably accounts for about a tenth of that on her own."

Chuck frowned. Had the Homeland Security agent actually just made a joke?

"Well…" Chuck stopped. "I'm not sure I see here where you think the money's being laundered through the Woodcomb casinos."

"Front businesses, Mr. Bartowski," Casey replied. "There's about two hundred different dry cleaners, grocery stores, and as unlikely as it may seem, Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf franchises around southern California that we believe are owned by Mr. Woodcomb."

Chuck thought about that for a moment. If that were true, it wouldn't exactly be much trouble for the money to be transferred to a casino and laundered through there. An armored truck stops at a dry cleaner, picks up its "deposits" for the day, then later stops at, say, the Standard, where it drops off a bag or two of cash to be laundered. The cash then goes into cashiers' drawers throughout the hotel and casino, and the drug money goes out into the public, replaced by relatively "clean" money brought into the hotel by the customers. The cartel would have untraceable cash, the casino would get a cut, and nobody would ever be the wiser.

"Is that how they do it?" Chuck asked, after explaining his theory to John Casey.

Casey nodded. "We believe so," he replied. "And you're right, it is a relatively untraceable system. However, we think that somebody in upper management – maybe Mr. Woodcomb himself – made the mistake of making a sizeable purchase with some of the money that had come directly from the cartel."

"And that's all it takes," Chuck mused. "One mistake brings down a massive scam."

"Hopefully," Casey confirmed. "However, we don't even have enough for a warrant right now. That's where you come in, Mr. Bartowski."

* * *

><p>Alex McHugh sat in Sarah Walker's office, peering intently at a computer monitor. She had been Sarah's first hire – "To improve IT security," she had explained to Chuck Bartowski.<p>

Chuck, being a computer nerd himself, had asked Alex to prove herself, and so she had. Pulling out an iPad, she had within sixty seconds hacked her way into the computer sitting on Chuck's desk.

"It would've taken me less time," she said to the astonished self-professed nerd, "but you do have one hell of a security system."

"Christ," Chuck had said. "I'd rather have you working for us than against us. By all means, hire her."

And so, Alex had actually spent most of her first two days on the job upgrading the Viper's IT security to approximately the same level that could be found at the Pentagon. However, as she did so, she built in a few weak points and "trap doors" that she, and she alone, would be able to exploit.

"God, is it already 4:30?" she groaned as she looked at the clock. "I feel like I've been here forever."

"You've only been here since seven this morning," Sarah teased her. "Nine and a half hours is nothing."

"Nine and a half hours is nothing," Alex mocked her. "You forget, I haven't had the luxury of Army Ranger training. I'm a weak civilian."

Sarah grinned. "God, you really are a military brat, aren't you?"

"Don't remind me," Alex groaned. "I need a break."

"Fair enough," Sarah allowed. "You have been working all day. Let's go grab a drink."

Sarah and Alex stepped out of the office, and Sarah let the door swing shut behind her. It would not reopen without a retinal scan, voice confirmation, and Sarah's key card, which Sarah figured was more than enough to secure the office from any ne'er-do-wells who might somehow find their way to the administrative suite of the casino.

They were standing in the elevator lobby, an elevator having just arrived, when the two women heard voices. Inexplicably, Alex went completely pale. "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," she whispered, diving into the elevator as soon as the doors were open, and jabbing the "CLOSE DOORS" button repeatedly before Sarah even had a chance to take a step toward the elevator.

_Now, what the hell was that all about?_ Sarah asked herself, turning toward the voices as their sources came around the corner.

"Oh, perfect!" Chuck Bartowski said upon seeing Sarah. "Sarah, this is John Casey, with the Department of Homeland Security. He's doing an investigation, and I may ask you to liaise with him from time to time. Agent Casey, this is my director of security, Sarah Walker."

Sarah held out her hand. "Agent Casey," she said.

"Director Walker," he replied, taking her hand and giving her a firm, perfunctory shake.

Another elevator arrived, and the three stepped onboard. Chuck pressed the button for the ground floor, and the elevator began to descend.

After a moment of awkward silence, Sarah became acutely aware of Agent Casey staring at her intensely. "Can I help you?" she finally asked, trying – and failing – to keep the note of irritation out of her voice.

"Have we met before?" he asked. "You look incredibly familiar."

Sarah took a deep breath. If this Agent Casey was military – and he appeared to be – then he had no doubt seen the picture of Lt. Jennifer Burton, Army Ranger, at some point or another. Yet another kink in her plans.

"I doubt it," she replied, her voice calm and steady. "What can I say. Blondes are a dime a dozen here in L.A."

"Hmmm," Casey grunted, but he remained silent for the rest of the elevator ride.

As soon as the elevator doors opened, Sarah practically bolted, forcing herself to walk with a normal pace toward the Goldwyn Bar and Grill just off the lobby of the Viper. Walking in, she spotted Alex, who was facing the door, a clearly untouched gin and tonic in front of her, an intense, suspicious stare fixed on the front door.

Alex breathed a sigh of relief when she spotted Sarah. "Thank God," she muttered, as Sarah sat down across from her.

Sarah frowned at the younger woman. "Explain?"

Alex took a deep breath. "You just met a homeland security agent named John Casey, didn't you?"

"What?" Sarah asked, confused. "How on earth could you – oh, my God. Oh, for Christ's sake."

"Yeah," Alex replied with a resigned nod. "John Casey, a.k.a. Alexander Coburn, a.k.a. my oh-so-wonderful father."

Sarah slowly lowered her head until her forehead rested on the cold table. "This just gets better and better, doesn't it."

* * *

><p><strong>CAST<strong>

Chuck Bartowski – Zachary Levi  
>Vicki Dunwoody – Stacy Keibler<br>John Casey – Adam Baldwin  
>Lou Palone – Rachel Bilson<br>Sarah Walker – Yvonne Strahovski  
>Alex McHugh – Mekenna Melvin<p> 


	12. Would You Like To Take That Back?

_**Author's Note #1**: Sorry about the nearly three week interval this time. The last week of day camp, spending a week with my family in Arizona, and transitioning back to North Carolina left me with less time than I figured. However, I have pretty much nothing to do for the next three weeks. As such, I'm going to try to crank out another chapter tomorrow. Enjoy!_

* * *

><p><strong>May 10, 2010<strong>

"The Fulcrum Systems Vita-Tracker," Sarah Walker announced, holding the device aloft. "Built into a high-end Rolex watch, it constantly monitors your vital statistics, reporting them back to the security center here. If at any time something appears to be abnormal, it will trigger an alarm, which will in turn generate a response from the GRETA unit."

"The Vita-Tracker," a sonorous voice mulled, seemingly tasting the words. "Does it come in chewable fruit flavors that kids will love?"

Devon Woodcomb's deadpan question set off a ripple of laughter through the conference room. While he had the most reason to be unhappy about being here – he had, after all, been running a free clinic in Mazatlan when he had been unceremoniously summoned back to Los Angeles – none of the rest of the top level executives of Woodcomb Hollywood Entertainment, LLC, appeared to be thrilled about having their vital signs constantly monitored by Sarah Walker, Vicki Dunwoody, "and the rest of the _Angeles Schutzstaffel_," Devon sourly termed the GRETA unit.

Sarah Walker raised an eyebrow. "Dr. Woodcomb, did you really just compare the security staff for Woodcomb Hollywood to a group of ruthless Nazis?"

"If the shoe fits," Devon replied with a snort.

"Alright, alright, that's enough," Chuck said, intervening before the two could get into it any further. "Sarah, if you could please continue?"

She nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Bartowski," she replied. "Now, the monitoring unit does take into account certain abnormalities, such as the increased blood pressure, pulse, and respiration associated with sex."

And as that word came out of the statuesque blonde's mouth, the faces of three of the four men in the room began to develop a blush, in spite of the fact that they were all very much grown men. Realistically, if Big Mike Tucker could have blushed, it would have been four out of four.

"Uh, Director Walker," Big Mike interjected. "Let's say, uh, that a man, a larger man, perhaps, is participating in, well, a particularly, uh, VIGOROUS... time... with a lady friend. Wouldn't that cause a larger than normal abnormality?"

Sarah raised an eyebrow, and then shook her head slowly, as if trying to wipe away the mental image of a sweaty, thrusting Big Mike. "In the interest of..." she began, and then stopped. _Causing permanent psychological harm to one of the GRETA agents?_ "The interest of not responding to a false alarm," she continued, "the monitor also takes into account brain chemistry as well. If your brain is actively releasing endorphins, as it would during sex, then clearly, we are not going to intervene." She paused, having to physically stop herself from rolling her eyes as Chuck Bartowski and Devon Woodcomb choked down giggles.

_Chuck was just on TMZ for having a one-night stand with a military industrialist's daughter, and Dr. Woodcomb's married to Chuck's sister, _Sarah thought to herself as they calmed down. _You'd think from their reactions that neither of them had ever had sex before_.

"However," she finally resumed, her patience beginning to wear thin, "your brain produces different chemistry in negative situations."

Then an evil thought crossed her mind. "In fact," she said, a small smile making its way to her lips, "I can demonstrate, if you'd like."

Chuck and Devon both frowned, but Woody Woodcomb spoke up for the first time during the meeting. "Please, Director Walker," he said. "My son would be more than happy to volunteer."

Devon turned and gave his father a dirty look, but stood up anyway. "As a medical professional, it is certainly incumbent upon me to make sure this is safe," he said to Sarah.

"Uh-huh," she muttered. "Put this on."

She handed Devon a Rolex, which he took from her and examined. "Hmmph," he grunted, slipping it on his wrist.

"Alright," Sarah continued, turning a laptop around to face the men at the table. "As you can see here, the monitoring program is set up on this laptop, specifically for Dr. Woodcomb's Vita-Tracker. I have set the alarm to its lowest threshold, which means that it will activate at a much lower level than normal."

Devon looked at her. "When you say a much lower level than norm-"

Sarah Walker kicked him directly in the left shin.

"SON OF A BITCH!" Devon howled, dropping to his knees as the laptop started to scream bloody murder.

"What I mean," Sarah said calmly, as she stepped to the laptop and silenced it, "is that if you stub your toe in the dark, Vicki Dunwoody's not going to come riding to the rescue. However, if you were to, say, be in a car accident in which you're injured, I can guarantee you that a GRETA agent will be there before the LAPD."

"Impressive," Chuck said. "And you're wanting... who to wear these, again?"

"You, Mr. Bartowski, as well as Mr. Woodcomb, Dr. Woodcomb, Mr. Tucker, and myself," she replied. "If any one of us is injured or suddenly takes ill – like, say, a heart attack or stroke – that's when the alarm goes off. It will, of course, also tell us where you are at that time."

And oddly enough – at least, oddly enough, in Sarah's opinion – that last statement set Woody Woodcomb to looking a little ill at ease. "Interesting," he said, a note of nervousness present in his voice. "Tell me, Director, will this, uh, allow you to track our locations at any time?"

_You bet your sweet bippy it will_. "Absolutely not," Sarah replied, shaking her head. _Are you kidding? I have to know EXACTLY where people are when I pull this con._ "We will only be made aware of your location if the alarm is triggered."

Unlike Woody Woodcomb, Sarah Walker was accustomed to hiding behind a mask, so her words and face quite calmly and quietly hid her true intentions. Woody, however, Sarah was able to read like a book. He was up to something. She wasn't sure quite what. She wasn't SURPRISED that he was up to something – after all, the bastard had sunk her father – but she didn't really have a clue what it was.

Not that she really gave a rat's ass. He could be getting ready to launch a mission into space with Victor von Doom for all she cared. She'd just make sure to rob him while he was away turning into Mr. Fantastic.

_Now, where the hell did THAT come from?_ she asked herself crossly – but she already knew the answer. It had come from a weekend holed up in the executive office suite with Chuck Bartowski. The two of them had been there to make sure that all hell didn't break loose on the Sunset Strip over the weekend, and he had a REMARKABLE collection of what he called "Marvel Comics' finest" in his office. Surprisingly, she had found herself quite intrigued by some of the comics – especially Captain America and the Fantastic Four.

But that was irrelevant in the here and now. "Are there any questions?" she asked.

"Are you going to kick me in the shin again?" Devon groaned, limping back to his seat.

Sarah smiled sweetly. "Of course not, Dr. Woodcomb," she replied. "If there are no other questions, I'd like you all to each take your Rolex and make sure it's on you at all times."

* * *

><p>As Chuck and Devon put on their Rolexes, Chuck turned to his brother-in-law. "Devon," he said quietly, "do you think you could spare a moment to come talk to me in my office?"<p>

"Anything for you, bro," Devon replied. "Lead the way."

When they reached Chuck's office, Chuck shut the door behind them, pointing Devon toward a seat in front of his desk. "So, where'd you find this Sarah Walker?" Devon asked him.

"Honestly, she just showed up in the driveway one morning," Chuck replied. "Pulled in, said she wanted a job, gave me a resume that would make most third-world dictators weep for joy. Her _bona fides_ are unimpeachable, and even Kate Beckett has given her the thumbs up."

Devon raised his eyebrows. "Awesome," he said, clearly impressed. "And you just hired her on the spot?"

Chuck snorted. "Better her overseeing security here than me," he replied. "Come on, Mister Vice-President, you know what a bitch this place is."

"Oh, God, don't call me that," Devon groaned. "Yes, I know EXACTLY how bad this place is, which is why the vice-president of Woodcomb Hollywood Entertainment is so very rarely around."

"Yeah, I guess somebody needs to save the world," Chuck replied. "Anyway... um. Listen. We've got a problem, and as ridiculous as it may seem, you're who I felt was the most logical person to approach about it."

Devon frowned. "What could you possibly think I can solve at this casino?"

Chuck sighed. "Um. Yeah. You know the Sonora Supermarket chain your dad owns, and the half a dozen Coffee Bean franchises, and the Angeles Star dry cleaning company?"

"Yeah," Devon replied. "What about them?"

Chuck scratched his head. "Well... what if I told you that the federal government thinks he's laundering drug money through them? For the Goya Cartel?"

Devon's right eyebrow very slowly raised, and he looked for a moment as though he was collecting his thoughts before speaking. "Well," he finally said, "I guess it wouldn't surprise me in the least."

THAT surprised Chuck. "Really."

Devon sighed. "Chuck," he said, "my father is a rat bastard son of a bitch. My mother is in a home because of him."

"What?" Chuck was taken aback. "I mean, I knew your mother was in an assisted living center, but – because of him?"

"Twenty years of mental and emotional abuse," Devon spat bitterly. "And she turned to drugs and alcohol to 'escape', as it were." He looked up at Chuck, rage in his eyes. "You know she won't even leave her room without an armed escort anymore? She's CONVINCED that my father is going to send somebody to kill her."

Chuck looked at Devon in disbelief. "But... he's not... he wouldn't."

"No, he wouldn't," Devon grumbled. "Even he's not that much of a bastard. But she saw what he did to Jack Burton, she saw what he did to Martha Rodgers, and she KNOWS what he did to her. She's afraid that the next logical step is just to bump her off."

"Soooo..." Chuck thought for a moment. "So, if, potentially a Homeland Security agent were to come here asking for my assistance in figuring out if he was involved... you wouldn't object to me helping him?"

"Object?" Devon snorted. "Hell, I'll help. But here's the thing, Chuck – if you help Homeland Security, you can't just get them to put my dad in jail."

Chuck frowned. "Devon, I'm pretty sure the US government doesn't execute people for laundering money."

Devon shook his head, a small smile growing on his face. "You have to think more creatively, Chuck," he replied. "Prison's too good for my father. I want him in witness protection. I want him to be as miserable as everybody he has hurt and exiled from Los Angeles through what he has done. I want him to know that he lost everything because he was a fucking JACKASS."

"Uh, okay," Chuck said, surprised at the sudden outburst of vitriol from Devon. "That... might take some creative thinking."

"And if anybody can do it, it's you, Chuckster," Devon answered, his cheerful demeanor returning. "I have faith in you."

_Oh, joy_, Chuck thought, but mercifully, he was interrupted by his intercom.

"_Mr. Bartowski?_"

He reached out and pushed the button. "Yes, Vicki?"

"_Do you remember how you once told me to tell you if, and I quote, 'Harry Tang's miserable ass ever absorbed so much as one beam of a light from a lightbulb in a Woodcomb casino?'_"

"Aw, HELL no," Chuck groaned. "Where is he?"

"_Downstairs_."

Chuck rocketed out of his chair and stormed across his office. "Devon, go ahead and show yourself out," he called over his shoulder. "VICKI!" he bellowed as he wrenched open the door.

"Mr. Bartowski?"

Chuck narrowed his eyes. "Have Ms. Ceres detain Mr. Tang in the lobby, and then find out what miserable, soon-to-be-out-of-a-job IT tech at this hotel called the Nerd Herd."

Chuck left before he got an answer, hearing Vicki's call behind him. "Greta-Six to Greta-Bravo, how copy?"

As he rode the elevator down to the ground floor, Chuck grew angrier and angrier. There was a REASON that Woodcomb Hollywood had its own IT department. First of all, the Nerd Herd charged WAY too much – and Chuck KNEW, since he had once been one of the Nerds – and secondly, Harry Tang was an enormous douche.

With a "DING!" the elevator came to a stop at the lobby, and the doors opened. Chuck looked across the lobby, and his eyes narrowed.

There, being detained by GRETA agent Tristan Ceres, was Harry Tang, formerly the scourge of Chuck's existence. "Goddammit," Chuck muttered as he stormed out of the elevator.

"Mr. Bartowski," Harry hissed as Chuck marched up to him. "Would you kindly have your brownshirt take her damn hands off of me?"

Chuck stared at the Nerd Herd manager in disbelief. "What is it," he asked, "with people comparing my GRETA agents to Nazis today? I mean, come on!"

"Perhaps if she wasn't trying to forcibly expel me from the hotel while I'm on a legitimate service call, I'd look a little more kindly on her," Harry spat.

"A legitimate service call?" Chuck echoed with a laugh. "Come on, Harry, we have in-house IT. We don't utilize the Nerd Herd."

"It wasn't a call for the Viper," Harry sneered, shaking his head. "It was a call from a guest."

Chuck frowned. "But... wait a minute, guests know they have full access to our IT department."

Harry shrugged and smiled evilly. "Well, Bartowski, maybe they just trust the Buy More brand more."

"Yeah, whatever," Chuck grumbled. "What room was it?"

"Like I'd tell you," Harry shot back. "I intend to complete this service call."

"Oh, really?" Chuck asked. Pulling his phone off of his belt, he hit the speed dial for Kate Beckett.

"_Hello, Chuckles,_" he heard a moment later.

"Hi, Kate," Chuck replied. "I'd like to report an individual trespassing at the Viper."

"_You're not actually having me arrest Mor-_"

"ROOM 472!"

Chuck looked at Harry, as hatred practically dripped out of the man's mouth. "On second thought, Kate, the trespasser seems to have had a change of heart," he told the sheriff.

There was silence on the other end, and then Kate sighed. "_I worry about you sometimes,_" she said, and then hung up.

"Good-bye, Harry," Chuck said to his former boss. "Tristan, please escort him off the property. If he comes back..."

"I can shoot him?" the GRETA agent asked, a hopeful look in her eyes.

"Uh... no. That might be a little extreme," Chuck said. "Just call the sheriff's department, okay?"

As he walked away, Chuck could practically feel Harry Tang's glare boring into his back, but he just didn't care. Stepping back onto the elevator, he rode it to the fourth floor. When he exited the elevator, he turned left and headed toward the east end of the building.

"Room 472," Chuck mused. "I wonder what... hmmm. I hope it's just a software issue." After all, as Chuck had just realized, his toolkit was sitting in his office.

Reaching 472, Chuck raised his right hand and knocked. A moment later, he heard the tumblers in the dead bolt fall, and the door opened, revealing -

Chuck's eyes widened in shock. He was staring at a VERY famous woman. As in, Playboy's Miss July 2006 and Playmate of the Year 2007 famous.

But his shock ended in a split second. Chuck was relatively accustomed to dealing with famous guests, and Sara Underwood was FAR from the biggest celebrity to ever cross the threshold of the Viper. "Good afternoon," he said. "I understand you're having a computer issue?"

Sara raised an eyebrow. "You're the Nerd Herder?" she asked, a smile on her face. "Certainly not what I expected."

Chuck grinned. "I'm actually the chief operating officer of the hotel," he replied. "Chuck Bartowski."

"I don't understand," she replied, her smile turning into a frown. "I called the Nerd Herd."

"And the person they sent isn't exactly... welcome... in this hotel," Chuck explained. "You see, once upon a time, he was my boss, and he's kind of a douche, so..."

"So you banned him," she replied, and then grinned. "I like your style, Mr. Bartowski."

* * *

><p><strong>May 11, 2010<strong>

The last strains of Nirvana's "Heart-Shaped Box" faded away in the KROQ studios. "This is 106.7, K-R-O-Q," Bean Baxter said. "Now, who's gonna be playing the Weenie Roast this summer?"

"The Who's gonna be playing the WEENIE ROAST?" Ralph Garman butted in, his voice excited.

"That's amazing!" Psycho Mike added.

"No, no, I'm afraid not," Bean replied. "The question was, WHO is going to be playing -"

"THE WHO'S GONNA BE PLAYING THE WEENIE ROAST?"

This time, Bean just ignored Ralph. "When is the show, when do tickets go on sale, gimme gimme gimme gimme, all your answers -"

"Gimme gimme gimme gimme?" Psycho Mike interrupted with a laugh, his voice incredulous.

Bean laughed. "All your answers, coming one hour from right now -"

"HANSON'S gonna be playing Weenie Roast?"

Bean shook his head. "First though, Tuesday morning means Harvey Levin is here from TMZ dot com!"

The percussive TMZ intro sound filled the studio. "Hey, Harvey, how are ya, man?" Bean asked, with Lisa May adding, "Hi, Harvey."

"_Hey guys, I'm good. Hi, Lisa May,_" Harvey replied.

"We are giddy and silly," Bean said, "so we apologize in advance for that."

"_No kidding_," Harvey shot back. "_I can tell!_"

"Ummm..." Bean hesitated. "Where do you want to start? So much going on in the wonderful world of TMZ dot com. What are you excited about, Harvey?"

"_Well, let's see..._"

"We, uh..."

"_Yes?_"

"No, go ahead," Bean said. "I mean, we need to talk about LaDanian Tomlinson, but I understand you've got something else up your sleeve."

"_Oh, yes, I've got another Chuck Bartowski story_," Harvey replied. "_You remember how a couple weeks back, Dax saw him hanging out with Vivian MacArthur, and it turned out that they had, shall we say, enjoyed each other's company the night before?_"

"How could we forget?" Ralph interjected. "It was only the lead story on TMZ TV for three nights running."

"_Well, he might have one-upped himself this time,_" Harvey said.

* * *

><p>Morgan's sign dropped to the sidewalk. "Oh, crap," he groaned, turning and running toward the casino. "Dammit, Chuck, can't you just keep it zipped?"<p>

* * *

><p>Psycho Mike couldn't help himself. "What do you mean, one-upped himself?" he replied. "That sounds vaguely filthy."<p>

"_When you consider the context, you could say that_."

Bean chuckled. "Alright, Harvey, you're killin' us with suspense here. Who was it?"

"_Okay, so one of my roving reporters overheard Mr. Bartowski reaming out somebody who turned out to be a Nerd Herder from Buy More in the lobby of the Viper, and then getting a room number out of him. He followed Mr. Bartowski up to the corridor, and apparently, Mr. Bartowski spent several hours in the room before coming back out. About ten minutes later, who should walk out of the same room but Sara Jean Underwood_."

"YES!" Psycho Mike shouted. "The man is a STUD!"

Bean frowned. "So, what you're saying is that Chuck Bartowski decided that he didn't like May, and wanted to spend a few hours in July?"

"Oh, God," Ralph groaned. "File."

"Yeah," Lisa May agreed. "Put it in the file."

"Oh, come on, guys!" Bean protested. "You know, because she was Miss July, and because -"

"WE GET IT," Ralph snapped. "FILE."

Harvey Levin laughed on the other end. "_That is, basically, the long and short of it,_" he replied. "_And we still don't even know what's going on between him and Vivian Mac-_"

"Uh, Harvey," Psycho Mike interrupted, "I hate to break in, but Chuck Bartowski's actually on the phone."

"Well, how about that," Bean said. "Good morning, Chuck! What's up?"

"_I WAS FIXING HER GODDAMN COMPUTER!_"

* * *

><p>Sarah Walker – Yvonne Strahovski<br>Dr. Devon "Captain Awesome" Woodcomb – Ryan McPartlin  
>Chuck Bartowski – Zachary Levi<br>Michael "Big Mike" Tucker – Mark Christopher Lawrence  
>Vicki Dunwoody – Stacy Keibler<br>Harry Tang – C.S. Lee  
>Tristan Ceres – Summer Glau<br>Kate Beckett – Stana Katic  
>Sara Jean Underwood – herself<br>Bean Baxter – himself  
>Ralph Garman – himself<br>Psycho Mike Catherwood – himself  
>Lisa May – herself<br>Harvey Levin – himself  
>Morgan Grimes – Joshua Gomez<p>

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Note #2<strong>: Once again, the beginning of the Kevin & Bean Show segment is almost exactly as it happened. For those who may not be too familiar with the show, when Ralph and Lisa start talking about the "file", any time one of the staff on the show says something particularly stupid on air, it goes in the "Would You Like to Take That Back" file. While Bean has never said that particular line, it strikes me – as somebody who has listened to the show for YEARS – as something he might say.  
><em>_In addition, with regard to the Vita-Trackers – don't worry. Those will be important. Very soon._


	13. Going Online Can Be Bad For Your Health

May 12, 2010

Chuck Bartowski was not going to work today.

To hell with it. It was a Wednesday. The casino would be perfectly fine for one weekday without him. The sportsbook wouldn't be that hectic tonight – the Kings were out of the NHL playoffs, Lakers-Suns didn't start until Monday, and the Dodgers were in Phoenix tonight. The flow of students recently out of Arizona's state universities had ebbed, and the pockets of most Angelenos were starting to empty, not to be refilled until paydays over the weekend.

That meant that Woodcomb Hollywood could spend one day without Chuck Bartowski.

He had spent most of the day at home, with G4 on the TV in the background, while he pored over the schematics he had put together for the Intersect computer. He felt like he was on the verge of figuring out the issue, but it kept slipping through his fingers.

And quite frankly, working on a computer kept him very much the hell out of the public eye.

Chuck was sick of the public eye. If it wasn't Vivian MacArthur, it was Sara Underwood. And then, apparently, some enterprising soul had done a remarkably good job (Chuck GRUDGINGLY admitted) of Photoshopping some pictures of him and _Mythbusters_ tech Kari Byron having a bit of frisky naked fun time on a secluded beach.

It had actually taken TMZ nearly a day to figure out that those were fakes.

_Attack of the Show_ had just come on G4 – _It's 4:00 already?, _Chuck thought - when the doorbell rang.

"Curious," he muttered. "I'm not expecting anybody."

Nonetheless, he rose and crossed the living room. He would be the first to admit that he was in no shape to be greeting anybody – a ratty old Nintendo t-shirt, holey jean shorts, a full day's scruff, and hair that looked like an entire zoo was perched on Chuck's head adorned him at that moment (he HAD at least managed to shower). But he didn't give a rat's ass -

Right up until he opened the door. "Oh, Christ," he uttered, looking out at the nearly perfect-looking Sarah Walker.

An amused grin appeared on the face of his director of security. "Catch you at a bad time, Chuck?" she asked.

"Uh, no, not at all," he lied through his teeth. "Uh, would you like to come in?"

"Why not," Sarah replied. "Of course, that is, if your apartment's in better shape than you are?"

Chuck snorted. "Wouldn't take much," he muttered, pushing the door all the way open so Sarah could step into the apartment.

"Hmmm, not bad," she said, a note of humor still present in her voice. "What are you working on here?"

"Eh, just a computer my dad's building," Chuck replied. "I think I'm actually gonna take a break for a little while and watch some TV."

"What are you watching?" Sarah asked. "Is that... are they talking about video games on TV?"

Chuck smiled. "Every day," he replied. "That's what G4 is. It's video games and the occasional entertainment news."

But as he watched, his face fall. "Oh, come on," he muttered. "Really?"

On the TV screen, in living color, was none other than Sara Jean Underwood, filling in as Kevin Pereira's co-host. Chuck had, the day before, gotten Vicki to have a HUGE Edible Arrangements basket sent to Sara, with a heartfelt apology for dragging her into his crap attached. In response, he had gotten a phone call from her. "It's alright, Chuck, really it is," she replied. Then she had suggested that they should get some coffee, or grab a drink, because she needed a friend or two who was clearly as big a nerd as her.

That had practically bowled Chuck over. He knew he realistically didn't stand a chance with a former Playboy Playmate, but maybe hanging out with her would get Ellie off his back about finding somebody (for once). Also, it was a breath of fresh air to hear Sara admit to being a gigantic nerd.

_Tell the truth_, Chuck's conscience chided him. _You're just interested in a different Sara...h._

Chuck pushed the voice away. He barely knew Sarah Walker. They had just met nine days prior. Sure, she was beautiful, and kind, and funny, and apparently cared enough about him that she had come to check on him -

"That's Sara Underwood, huh?" Sarah said, breaking into his thoughts. "She's pretty. And you honestly didn't have sex with her?"

"I. Did. Not," Chuck replied firmly. "I swear to God, fixing her computer was not a euphemism for anything."

Sarah nodded. "I believe you," she replied. "Now, as long as it's safe, I'm going to sit down on the couch and watch TV. Care to join me?"

Invited to sit on his own couch? "Uh, okay," Chuck said, grabbing his big container of cheese puffs from the table as he went.

He sat down on the couch next to Sarah, and over the next twenty minutes, found himself surprised – but pleased – at the fact that she seemed to have a pretty good grasp on every geeky, dorky, nerdy thing that spilled out of the show.

Then Kevin Pereira threw to Blair Herter for "The Feed". Blair talked some about the iPhone 4, about the game "Steam" coming to Mac platforms, and Microsoft apparently aiming the full might of the Evil Empire at Google Docs.

"_But all that pales in comparison to the latest news about Los Angeles' most eligible nerd,_" Blair said, causing Chuck to stiffen. _Oh, God, now what?_

"_Yes, Chuck Bartowski, the chief operating officer of Woodcomb Hollywood Entertainment and self-proclaimed nerd, has been making quite the splash in the public world lately,_" Blair continued, causing Chuck to groan.

"Goddammit," Chuck moaned, slowly sliding off the couch and onto the floor. Glancing up at Sarah, he saw her take an amused look down at him – and then her eyes flicked right back up to the screen.

"_Just a couple of weeks ago, Chuck was spotted by TMZ in the company of Vivian MacArthur, daughter of Russian arms magnate Alexei Volkoff. Then, just a couple days ago, TMZ spotted him going into – and MUCH later, coming out of – the hotel room of our very own Sara Underwood._"

"_And like he told Kevin and Bean yesterday,_" Sara broke in, "_all he was doing was fixing my computer._"

"_So... that's not a euphemism?_" Blair asked.

"_No._"

"_Just fixed your computer._"

"_Yes._"

"_Didn't have sex with you?_"

"_No._"

"_Just rumors._"

"_Yes._"

Blair raised an eyebrow. "_Would you actually tell us if... well, you know?_"

The shot cut back to Sara. A mischievous grin appeared on her face. "_Noooo..._"

"WOULD A STRAIGHT UP DENIAL HAVE KILLED YOU?" Chuck shouted at the television.

He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, and looked over to see that Sarah had moved to the floor, and was now sitting next to him. "Calm down, Chuck," she said, although the amused grin stayed glued to her face. "Don't want you setting off the Vita-Tracker."

Chuck cast an angry glare down at the watch, and then looked back at the TV screen.

"_After Chuck's denial that he and Sara did the hanky-panky, a set of pictures surfaced that appeared to show him doing naughty things with _Mythbusters_ host Kari Byron at a beach in Malibu. However, a few hours later, TMZ had debunked those as Photoshopped._

"_HOWEVER!_" Blair paused and looked directly at the camera. "_In the immortal words of the Dude... 'New shit has come to light.'_

"_Just a few minutes ago, TMZ posted a story that they say came from a Mr. Stavros Demitrios, the former boyfriend of one Ms. Lou Palone, the executive chef at the Viper Hotel and Casino_ -"

Chuck sat bolt upright, his face going pale white. "FUCK."

"_Apparently, not quite a year ago, he walked in on Ms. Palone, playing a game of hide-the-salami with Mr. Bartowski. Now, obviously, TMZ is generally loathe to accept uncorroborated stories_ -"

"I'm moving to Luxembourg," Chuck muttered. "They don't have TMZ there."

"_However, Mr. Demitrios was able to present TMZ with several pictures he took on his phone, and after fairly intense study, TMZ has apparently concluded that they are, in fact, the Real McCoy._"

And that's when a picture popped up on Chuck's TV screen. It was covered in a few areas with pixelation, and was a relatively grainy photo – but there was no question that it was a picture of Lou, bent over a service counter in the Viper's kitchen, with Chuck behind her, and they were both very, very naked.

"GODDAMMIT!" Chuck shouted. Picking up the cheese puff container, he hurled it at the TV. The container itself bounced harmlessly off the screen, but its contents exploded onto the floor, leaving cheese puffs all over the carpet and a fine orange dust hanging in the air.

Chuck's head dropped until his chin was touching his chest. "Fuck my life," he muttered.

* * *

><p>Across town, at the Chateau Marmont, Bryce Larkin sat at his laptop, looking dumbfounded at TMZ's website. "Oh, my God," he muttered to himself. "Chuck, you've stepped in it all the way up to your knees, bucko."<p>

* * *

><p>Woody Woodcomb held his head in his hands. "For Christ's sake," he groaned. "Really? REALLY?"<p>

"So he had sex, Dad," Devon said irritably, not at all pleased with the fact that he was sitting in his father's office. "Men, especially powerful men, tend to do that. You of all people should know."

Woody turned and glared at his son. "Exactly what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

* * *

><p>"Wow, Chuck Bartowski is... pretty impressive when he's naked."<p>

Richard Castle's eyes widened, and in one swift, fluid motion, he whirled around and slammed the lid of Alexis' laptop shut.

"You are sixteen, young lady!" he snapped. "I don't want to hear those words come out of your mouth again until you're at least forty!"

* * *

><p>John Cooper and Ben Sherman were both hunched over the monitor. "Unbelievable," Cooper said. "He's got to realize there are always cameras. ALWAYS cameras."<p>

"Says the man who got caught getting road head by a red light camera," Sherman cracked.

"Gentlemen!"

The two officers whirled to face Sheriff Beckett. "Don't you two have work to be doing?"

"Yes, ma'am!" they both answered, and disappeared.

Kate looked at the monitor on the desk Cooper and Sherman had just vacated. "Chuck, Chuck, Chuck," she sighed. "Oh, Charles."

* * *

><p>Sarah Walker stood outside the door to Chuck's bathroom. "You can't stay in there forever, you know," she called through the bathroom door.<p>

"Like hell," Chuck shot back. "I'll just stay here until December 21st, 2012. The world ends then anyway, right?"

Sarah shook her head. "You don't actually believe that, do you?"

There was silence for a moment. "No..."

"Chuck, you've got to come out and face the world some time," Sarah said.

"But it's not fair!" Chuck raged. "I have done NOTHING wrong, but I'm suddenly Chuck Bartowski, Nerdy Sex Machine!"

Sarah chuckled. "Not sure I would go THAT far," she replied. "And you're right, you didn't do anything wrong. But you still have to face it."

"I shouldn't have to," he grumped. "I mean, I'm a VERY influential person, but all this power I have, and I... can't..."

His voice trailed off, and he was silent for a moment. "Chuck?" Sarah asked, praying that he hadn't done something stupid.

"Power," she finally heard him mutter. "POWER!"

The bathroom door was flung open, and Chuck marched out, turning toward his bedroom. "Power is the answer!" he declared, slamming the bedroom door shut behind him.

"Chuck, what are you talking about?" Sarah called after him, following him to the door of his room.

"I can't talk about it," he replied. "Top secret nerd work!"

* * *

><p>An hour later, Chuck's Prius coasted to a stop in front of his parents' house in Encino. He had successfully convinced Sarah to head back to the Viper, and he had himself headed for Fry's Electronics in Burbank.<p>

The answer to the Intersect's problems had been so simple – power. Looking over his schematics, Chuck realized that his father had been using nearly a dozen cobbled together power supplies. The inconsistent voltage and amperage was causing shorts, crashes, blown circuits, and so on and so forth. "With one REALLY powerful unified power source," he had concluded, "it should work just fine."

And so, armed with said power source, a pair of wire cutters, and an infrared frequency spoofer that he was ABSOLUTELY NOT supposed to have (and which he was quite sure Kate Beckett would arrest him for having), Chuck marched into his parents' house. They were both out of town, so he knew he would have some quality alone time with the Intersect.

Entering the living room, he pointed the frequency spoofer at the fireplace and pushed its power button. Numbers cycled on the screen for a few seconds, and then the hearth silently slid aside, revealing the stairway into Stephen Bartowski's secret lair.

Filled with a sense of purpose, thoughts of Vivian MacArthur, Sara Underwood, and Lou Palone banished from his mind, Chuck made his way through the lair to the Intersect room. Entering it, he turned on the lights and went straight to the cobbled-together computer.

Unplugging the solitary wiring harness connecting the computer to the many and sundry power supplies, Chuck pulled them off of the assembly. Unpacking the shiny, large power supply he had just purchased, Chuck placed it onto the assembly, and then very carefully began stripping wiring harness wires in order to power the many different components with the one power source.

A mere thirty minutes later, Chuck had everything seemingly hooked up in the right place – and like any good nerd, he had to do a test run, to make sure his work had done the right thing. So, he stood up, crossed to the front of the computer assembly, and entered the key sequence to bring the computer online.

As it had before, the entire room went dark, and then each panel lit up with a blue screen. But unlike the last time Chuck had seen the Intersect turned on, it didn't say _INTERSECT OFFLINE_.

No, this time, it said:

_INTERSECT ONLINE.  
>CIPHER PRESENT.<br>PRESS "ENTER" TO CONTINUE._

Okay. So everything was up and working properly. However, he had to make sure it could perform under full load, which meant actually running the thing.

"Here goes nothing," Chuck muttered, reaching out and striking the "Enter" key -

And everything went dark again – and stayed dark. "Dammit," Chuck sighed. "I knew it couldn't be that sim-"

Without warning, every panel lit up again – except this time, they were filled with flashing sequences of images. "What the hell?"

Chuck tried to reach out to hit "Enter" again – but found himself quite unable to move. In fact, he found he couldn't look away from the flashing images in front of him. In fact, he found that he could no longer think -

* * *

><p>Tristan Ceres had drawn Vita-Tracker duty for that evening. She was sitting in the security office, watching the bank of monitors – one labeled WW, one labeled CB, one labeled DW, one labeled SW, and one labeled BM – the last labeled as such largely because Mike Tucker had an entirely juvenile sense of humor.<p>

Everybody's monitors had been just fine for her entire shift – and then Chuck Bartowski's went berserk.

His vitals jumped through the roof, and the monitor started screaming bloody murder. "Oh, shit!" Tristan gasped.

Reaching out, she hit the security panic button. That would have Vicki Dunwoody and Sarah Walker down there in under a minute.

Thirty-five seconds later, Vicki ran through the door, followed by Sarah less than five seconds after that. "Who is it?" Vicki barked.

"Mr. Bartowski's tracker has gone nuts!" Tristan exclaimed. "I don't know what's going on -"

Sarah's face had gone white. "Oh, God, what did you do, Chuck?" she breathed. "Where is he?"

Tristan whirled to the monitor and typed in a command. "Encino," she replied. "18071 Kittredge Street."

"Call Kate Beckett, get a car over there on the double," Vicki ordered. "I'll get L.A. Fire. Director Walker -"

But Sarah was already gone.

* * *

><p>Chuck Bartowski – Zachary Levi<br>Sarah Walker – Yvonne Strahovski  
>Kevin Pereira – himself<br>Sara Jean Underwood – herself  
>Blair Herter – himself<br>Bryce Larkin – Matt Bomer  
>Woody Woodcomb – Bruce Boxleitner<br>Devon Woodcomb – Ryan McPartlin  
>Alexis Castle – Molly Quinn<br>Rick Castle – Nathan Fillion  
>John Cooper – Michael Cudlitz<br>Ben Sherman – Ben McKenzie  
>Kate Beckett – Stana Katic<br>Tristan Ceres – Summer Glau  
>Vicki Dunwoody – Stacy Keibler<p>

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Note:<strong> So, what just happened? Oh, you know what just happened. Let's just say that Chuck should have a MUCH easier time identifying parts of the Goya Cartel after this little incident..._


	14. The Ventura Boulevard Grand Prix

**May 12, 2010**

As you drive northbound on Laurel Canyon Boulevard, through the Hollywood Hills, when you reach Kirkwood Drive, there is, on the right hand side of the road, a quaint little shopping center that seems entirely out of place in Los Angeles. A dry cleaner, a country store, and a pizza bistro that all seem as though they would be more at home somewhere in the mountains serve the rich and beautiful people who live in the Hollywood Hills.

A pair of famous guitarists were, at that very moment, in the parking lot of Pace Pizza, leaning against the side of a black and gold Ford Flex, sharing a joint. Though they would both be quickly identified in Beverly Hills or Santa Monica, here in the Hills, they were safe in an enclave of relative anonymity. They could walk around this part of the Hollywood Hills relatively unmolested, although a passing motorist might see them and say, "Hey, that's the guy who sang about some chick's body being a wonderland, and wasn't the other one hot for teacher?"

It was as they were approaching the end of their shared cannabis that the two men heard an unearthly howl. The younger looked at the older with a puzzled look on his face. "What the hell is that?"

The older of the two guitarists looked back at the younger and said, "Well, John, that sounds to me like somebody took a baseball bat to a Crate amp, then turned it up to eleven and plugged in a Les Paul."

The younger guitarist bit back a snort of laughter. "Uh-huh. Seriously, Eddie, that's a car engine."

Throwing the butt of the joint on the ground, Eddie stepped on it, snuffing it out, and made his way to the side of Laurel Canyon, with John following close behind him. And as the two of them reached the side of the road –

A black Porsche 911 flew into view, tearing around the curve with all the grace and patience of a wounded rhinoceros. A Los Angeles County Sheriff's department Dodge Charger followed closely on the 911's tail, code three, lights flashing and siren blaring.

John and Eddie stared down the road after the two vehicles, and then looked at one another. "What the hell was that?" Eddie finally asked.

"I do not know," John replied, "but I think I know who might be interested."

* * *

><p>Harvey had just settled onto his couch, ready for that night's show to begin, when his phone vibrated. Frowning, he picked it up off the coffee table, and read the text message that had just come in:<p>

_LA Sheriff chasing black 911 through HHills. Celeb car chase? – JM_

There was nothing Harvey loved better than a celebrity car chase. Sure, it was a little vampiric, but it made for GREAT copy. And if the Los Angeles County Sheriff was chasing a black Porsche through the Hollywood Hills… well, well. Furthermore, the sender of the text was a reliable source – Harvey only knew one person with the initials JM who had his private number.

Dialing the second number on his speed dial list, Harvey patiently waited for the call to connect.

"_Hello?_"

"Dax, Harvey. Listen, I need you to get on the police band, see if you can get something on a car chase through the Hills involving a black Porsche."

"_We thinkin' a celebrity here?_"

"Well, Lindsay Lohan did get one of those just a couple months ago. This could be gold."

* * *

><p>This was not a good time of day for a high speed pursuit down Ventura Boulevard. However, the driver of the black 911 didn't seem to care, and oddly enough, the police Dodge following the 911 was disregarding a number of safety protocols. Miraculously, there had not been a single accident yet caused by this little bit of tomfoolery.<p>

The two young actresses heading into the wine and tapas bar at Ventura and Woodley were there with a fair degree of anonymity. While they were both essentially goddesses within the sci-fi nerd community, the redhead and the brunette were fairly safe from wide-eyed autograph seekers in this part of the Valley – especially at an establishment such as this one.

They heard the sirens long before they saw anything. Both turned and watched with a degree of astonishment as the black Porsche weaved back and forth across Ventura Boulevard, the black and white Dodge Charger stuck to its tail as if it was glued there.

The brunette turned to the redhead. "Jewel, am I hallucinating, or did you see that too?"

Jewel nodded. "Yeah, I saw it."

"What do you think is going on?"

"Morena, I really don't care," Jewel replied with a shrug. "There is a 2000 Clos du Val Cabernet Sauvignon in there waiting for us, so unless that was my husband driving MY 911, I think there are more important things at hand."

Nonetheless, as soon as they were seated, Jewel's phone came out.

* * *

><p>Harvey's phone vibrated again. At this point, the evening's show was forgotten. He was parked in front of his computer, police radio on. He picked up the phone.<p>

_Porsche chased down Ventura at Woodley by sheriff. Celeb stupidity? – JS_

Harvey dialed Dax again. "Dax, listen, the Porsche is on Ventura now. You got anything yet?"

"_I don't, Harvey. Whatever's going on, they're playing it really close to the vest. They must be using cell phones._"

Harvey frowned. "Well, they just passed Ventura and Woodley. Where are you?"

"_I'm at the Starbucks at Ventura and Hayvenhurst. I can actually hear the sirens – let me see if I can get a look._"

* * *

><p>Dax ran outside, hearing the howl of the Porsche's overtaxed engine approaching. Popping off his camera's lens, he started taking pictures as quickly as possible.<p>

As the Porsche flew past, he quickly took as many pictures as he could of the license plate area. Running back inside the Starbucks, he pulled the SD card out of his camera and popped it into his laptop.

Pulling up the pictures, he studied them for a moment, until he had assembled a full license plate. Picking up his phone, he dialed a number.

"_Los Angeles Police Robbery Homicide, this is Detective Crews._"

"Charlie, Dax Holt, TMZ. You got a minute?"

There was a sigh on the other end. "_Oh, all the time in the world for you,_" the homicide detective (once believed to himself be a murderer) deadpanned.

"I need to know who owns a black Porsche 911, Nevada license plate Victor Bravo Romeo four niner seven."

Dax heard a keyboard tapping in the background. "_Nevada VBR 497_… _okay, that is registered to a Sarah Lisa Walker, residence listed in Las Vegas._"

Damn.

"Okay, thanks Charlie," Dax replied, disappointed. He didn't even recognize the name Sarah Walker.

* * *

><p>Harvey's phone vibrated. He picked it up and read the text.<p>

_Porsche reg in NV to Sarah Walker. Dead end. – DH_

A frown crossed Harvey's face. So it wasn't Lindsay Lohan, but… that name sounded familiar. Sarah Walker… Sarah Walker…

"Sarah Walker's the new head of security at the Viper!" Harvey breathed, his face lighting up. And if Sarah Walker was racing through the streets of Los Angeles…

Well, there was a good chance Chuck Bartowski was involved. And Chuck Bartowski had made Harvey a LOT of money recently.

Harvey picked up the phone and dialed again. As soon as Dax picked up, he was barking instructions.

"Sarah Walker is Chuck Bartowski's new head of security!" Harvey shouted. "Get your ass on the road and find that Porsche!"

* * *

><p>Sarah Walker was driving like a woman possessed – and she had no idea why.<p>

Lauren Canyon and Ventura Boulevards had essentially become her own personal Grand Prix race track, as she had bombed through the Hills and the southern Valley as if her name was Dale Earnhardt, Jr., and that elusive checkered flag was finally within her grasp. John Cooper had been glued to her tail since she turned off of Sunset onto Laurel Canyon, and she had been in constant contact with him over the phone.

The Sheriff's department was observing strict radio silence on this, something for which Sarah was enormously grateful. The last thing Chuck needed was for this to get out on the police bands and be picked up by the bloodsucking media – if they got wind of him having some sort of health problem or injury, he would never hear the end of it.

Nonetheless, that did not – in and of itself – explain why Sarah was putting the well-being of half of the drivers in Los Angeles at risk right now. People just didn't worry about their bosses this way.

_People DO worry about people they really care about this way_, a little voice inside her head told her.

Sarah immediately dismissed the thought. It was ridiculous. She had only known Chuck Bartowski for nine days. Sure, he was one of the kindest, most caring, most amazing men she had ever met, and the weekend she had spent with him, essentially sequestered in his office reading comic books, had actually been one of the most enjoyable times of her life to date –

_STOP IT!_ she ordered herself. This was not helping. Dammit, no. Just no. She was not going to fall for somebody, not this quickly, and CERTAINLY not when she was trying to liberate millions of dollars from the company he worked for.

And yet, even as the thought passed through her head, she downshifted to take the right turn onto Lindley Avenue at far too high a rate of speed. And people just didn't do that unless they were trying to get to a lov-

_NO._

* * *

><p>"Charles?"<p>

Chuck's first conscious thought was _OW_.

"Charles, wake up."

His next conscious thought was, _Oh shit, that's Dad. I am SO busted._

Gritting his teeth, Chuck forced his eyes open – and slammed them back shut as they were assaulted by the bright white light of the Intersect room.

"Charles, I'm not going to yell at you right now. We can have that discussion later. What I AM going to do is say a phrase, and I need you to tell me if anything happens."

Chuck groaned. "All… right…"

"Orion."

Immediately, Chuck's mind's eye was bombarded with information. A classified file, detailing a CIA agent named "Orion". A picture of his father – with the notation "Orion". Another file, about Project Omaha, and yet another, about Agent X. A picture of his parents, with the notation "Orion/Frost". A picture of a wristwatch labeled "The Governor". A beagle. A dish of vanilla ice cream.

Chuck's eyes popped open, and this time, they stayed open, as he looked at his father in disbelief. "No way."

Stephen Bartowski's face was grim, but a hint of a smile appeared on it nonetheless. "Charles, I believe you've absorbed the entire Intersect," he said to his son. "Not exactly what I intended."

Chuck sighed. "Dad, I'm sorry… I just, I realized what was wrong with it, and I wanted to see if I could fix it –"

"Which you most definitely did," Stephen said. "It's fully operational, thanks to you."

He sighed, then picked up the frequency spoofer that lay on the ground next to Chuck. "By the way, cute trick with breaking into the lair, but surely you must have known that any unauthorized entry would set of an alarm that would alert me?"

"Honestly, I was so wrapped up in figuring out the answer that it didn't even occur to me," Chuck replied. Then he smiled weakly. "And stop calling me Shirley."

Stephen opened his mouth to reply – but before he could, a woman's voice roared, "STEP AWAY FROM HIM AND PUT YOUR HANDS UP!"

Chuck looked over at the door in alarm – and was quite surprised to see Sarah Walker standing in the doorway, an enormous gun in her hands, leveled at his father's head. John Cooper and Ben Sherman walked into the room behind her, guns out and up, and a moment later, Vicki Dunwoody came running into the room, holding –

"For God's sake, Vicki, is that an Uzi?" Chuck groaned.

Vicki looked down at her gun, then at Chuck, and blushed slightly. "Sorry, boss," she replied. "Your alarm went off, and we couldn't be too careful –"

"It was my own damn fault," Chuck grumbled. "Sarah, please stop pointing that hand cannon at my dad."

A hesitant look crossed Sarah's face, but the gun stayed firm. "That's your father?"

"Yes," Chuck replied with a sigh.

"And he didn't do anything to you that would've made your Vita-Tracker go off?"

Chuck shook his head. "No, Sarah," he answered. "In fact, what made that happen is what prompted him to come here as well."

Sarah frowned, but finally lowered her gun. "And what exactly happened?"

"That is classified information," Stephen interjected before Chuck could say anything. "This is a secret government project, and quite honestly, the fact that any of you are in here could cause serious trouble."

Vicki's face hardened, and her grip on her Uzi tightened. "Is that a threat, sir?"

Stephen shook his head. "No. We just need to get Chuck out of here and upstairs, and then you all need to forget whatever you might have seen down here."

Holstering her gun, Sarah crossed the room to Chuck. Reaching down, she helped him up. As he stood unsteadily to his feet, she put an arm around his back to support him, and turning her head, spoke just loud enough for him to hear.

"I'm really glad you're okay," she said softly, surprising herself and prompting a smile from Chuck.

As she helped Chuck up the stairs, he seemed to regain his strength, and by the time they had reached the front door, he had pulled away from her arm – but had noticeably not moved away from her. He reached for the doorknob, and pulled it open –

To be greeted by an explosion of camera flashes.

Behind him, Stephen Bartowski saw Chuck seem to physically deflate as the paparazzi firestorm erupted in the front yard. "Oh, boy."

* * *

><p><strong>May 13, 2010<strong>

The sounds of Switchfoot's "The Sound (John M. Perkins' Blues)" died away in the KROQ studios, to be replaced by the voice of Bean Baxter. "Thursday morning, you're listening to the Kevin and Bean Show on 106.7 KROQ," he announced. "As you know, as long as there are celebrities, TMZ dot com will be there to catch them in embarrassing situations. Please welcome back to the show our old friend, Dax Holt!"

The sound effect of a ringing phone filled the studio. "Hey, Dax, how are you man?" Bean asked.

"_Never better, Bean,_" Dax replied. "_Although, we do prefer to think of ourselves less of a celebrity embarrassment outfit and more of a news reporting outfit._"

"And I'm sure Lindsay Lohan prefers to think of herself less as a convicted felon and more as a misunderstood actress," Ralph Garman deadpanned. "But I see your point."

"Differences of opinion aside," Bean said, "what the hell is going on with Chuck Bartowski now, Dax?"

"_He needs to just lock himself in the Viper for about a week and pray that everything eventually blows over_," Dax replied. "_Last night, just after seven, Harvey started getting texts telling him about some maniac driving through the Hills and then the Valley in a 911, being chased by the county sheriff's department._"

"And how, exactly, did you get involved in that?" Bean asked. "I mean, I'm sure you weren't on the scene –"

"_I was actually at a Starbucks on Ventura Boulevard, and got outside just in time to get the license plate of the Porsche_," Dax replied. "_I called up one of my sources, and found out that it belonged to one Sarah Walker._"

"She's that smokin' hot blonde who's the security director at the Viper now, right?" Psycho Mike interrupted.

"_Right in one, Mike,_" Dax answered. "_I had to hunt around for the car a bit after that, but I found it outside of a house in Encino, with the sheriff's car and a Ford Expedition registered to the Viper parked right next to it. It turned out that the house belongs to Stephen and Mary Bartowski_ –"

"Chuck's parents?" Lisa May asked.

"_Exactly. Hi, Lisa May,_" Dax said. "_And about ten minutes after I got there, Chuck Bartowski walks out the door with Sarah Walker._"

Bean chuckled. "Oh, man," he said. "He just can't win."

* * *

><p>Woody Woodcomb sighed and looked at his desk. "This is a problem, Chuck," he informed his chief operating officer.<p>

"Sir, I swear to God, none of this is my fault. TMZ is out for my blood."

Woody looked up at Chuck. "I'm perfectly aware of that, Chuck. But we need to do damage control."

Chuck frowned. "Damage control?"

"Yes," Woody growled. "I will be calling CBS Radio this afternoon, and booking you on for a live, in-studio segment on the Kevin and Bean show TOMORROW. You're going to go in and explain exactly what the hell is going on. You're going to be honest. You're going to be comprehensive. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," Chuck sighed.

"And as soon as you're done at KROQ," Woody continued, "you're going to get in a car with Vicki Dunwoody, and you're going to drive up to Las Vegas, where you are going to spend a good chunk of time overseeing how things are going at the Cosmopolitan."

A look of disbelief crossed Chuck's face. "You're sending me to Vegas?" he protested. "But sir, we're entering the busiest part of our season –"

"And Sarah Walker, who has proven herself to be perhaps the ONLY competent person working for me right now, will be handling operations here while you're away," Woody snapped. "She will, of course, report to you daily. But right at the moment, Chuck, you're a liability to me, and I need for this firestorm to die down. Understood?"

Chuck sighed. "Understood."

* * *

><p>Sarah Walker looked at the memo from Woody Woodcomb. She was going to be running operations for Woodcomb Hollywood while Chuck was in Las Vegas?<p>

"Oh, Woody," she said with a small laugh. "You have no idea what you've just done to yourself."

* * *

><p>John Mayer – himself<br>Eddie Van Halen – himself  
>Harvey Levin – himself<br>Dax Holt – himself  
>Jewel Staite – herself<br>Morena Baccarin – herself  
>Charlie Crews – Damian Lewis<br>Sarah Walker – Yvonne Strahovski  
>Chuck Bartowski – Zachary Levi<br>Stephen J. Bartowski – Scott Bakula  
>John Cooper – Michael Cudlitz<br>Ben Sherman – Ben McKenzie  
>Vicki Dunwoody – Stacy Keibler<br>Bean Baxter – himself  
>Ralph Garman – himself<br>Psycho Mike Catherwood – himself  
>Lisa May – herself<br>Woody Woodcomb – Bruce Boxleitner


	15. Not A Hollywood Sex Symbol

**May 14, 2010**

"_I want a girl with a short skirt and a long… long… jacket!_"

The sounds of Cake echoed through the KROQ studio at Fairfax and Venice. Chuck Bartowski sat nervously in the crowded room, looking across the table at Ralph Garman and Lisa May, and then at the monitor that contained the bizarrely disembodied head of Bean Baxter.

Chuck knew that Bean broadcasted from his creepy little studio in Seattle. He'd known it since the guy moved there. Nonetheless, there was something disconcerting about hearing his voice as if he was in the room, but knowing that he was a couple thousand miles away.

As Psycho Mike adjusted the levels on Chuck's mike, Ralph reached out and flipped a switch, turning on his microphone – and then, much to Chuck's astonishment, started singing along with the trumpet outro on "Short Skirt, Long Jacket."

"BA-BA-BA-BA-BA-BAAAAA, BA-BA-BA-BA-BA-BA-BA-BAAAAAAAAAAA!"

Chuck just stared at the man in disbelief. Again, he knew that utter strangeness went on at KROQ, but seeing it up close and personal made it completely surreal. And then…

As the song came to an end, Psycho Mike bent over to Chuck's microphone, and he and Ralph both shouted, "HEY!"

Then there was dead air.

"Hey, indeed," Bean's voice finally said. "It's 7:20 on Friday morning, and you are listening to the Kevin and Bean Show on KROQ, 106.7 FM. Coming up after eight o'clock, Andrew Siciliano will be on to discuss what the eff happened to the Cleveland Cavaliers –"

"DELONTE WEST BONED LEBRON'S MOM!" Psycho Mike shouted from across the room, just barely picked up by one of the microphones.

Bean didn't even miss a beat. "And Adam Carolla joins us for This Week in Rage."

And then, Psycho Mike and Ralph both started saying, "Heyyyyy," doing their best – _Or, more likely, worst_, Chuck thought – impressions of the former _Man Show_ host.

"But right now," Bean said, "we've got a man in studio who has provided us with an unexpected amount of entertainment the last few weeks, mostly through his sex life. Between Vivian MacArthur –"

The sound effect of a bell going _DING!_ filled the studio.

"Sara Underwood –"

_DING!_

"Kari Byron –"

_DING!_

"And now Sarah Walker –"

_DINGDINGDINGDINGDING!_

"He's essentially boned his way through half of Hollywood –"

"YEAH!" Chuck winced as the sound of Li'l Jon's voice filled the studio.

"And he joins us now live in the studio. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to KROQ for the first time the chief operating officer of Woodcomb Hollywood Entertainment, Mr. Chuck Bartowski!"

* * *

><p><strong>THE NIGHT BEFORE<strong>

Chuck sat alone in his office, and he was NOT happy. First of all, he now had his dad's damn Intersect computer in his head, and he had "flashed" – his dad's term, not his – on several things over the last twenty-four hours. That had resulted in an ongoing bitch of a headache.

And now, he was being benched. Yeah, yeah, so supervising the final construction and the opening of the Cosmopolitan was probably the most important thing that Woodcomb Hollywood had done since the Viper opened. Yeah, so Las Vegas was actually probably the logical place for Chuck to be right now.

Nonetheless, he still felt like he was being removed from the starting lineup for things completely beyond his control. Worse yet, he was being replaced by somebody that HE HIMSELF had just hired a week and a half before.

It didn't help that he was going to have to go to Las Vegas with Vicki Dunwoody. She was perhaps the least fun person in the WORLD to hang out with. She tended to spend a ridiculous amount of time cleaning her guns and then practicing with them on a shooting range, and her sense of humor seemed to extend to… nowhere.

Of course, Chuck couldn't for the life of him figure out what Woody Woodcomb was thinking there. Yes, it made sense for him to have somebody watching his back, especially in Las Vegas, but the last time he checked, Vicki was an extremely attractive blonde, and TMZ WOULD have cameras in Las Vegas. This was just trouble waiting to happen.

The only concession Chuck had managed to get was that Morgan was going with them. Neither Woody nor Vicki had been terribly pleased with the idea of Chuck taking somebody along who 1) did NOT work for Woodcomb Hollywood, and 2) was named Morgan Guillermo Grimes. However, the idea of Morgan disappearing from the sidewalk in front of the Viper for an indefinite period of time had turned out to be quite appealing to Woody Woodcomb.

Chuck and Morgan both needed the hang-out time, anyway. Chuck was certain that he was going to be incredibly bored in Vegas, and Morgan needed to get out of Los Angeles – Anna had dumped him for some chef at Benihana. It seemed mildly ludicrous, but there it was.

And so, Chuck was at his computer, getting things in the office ready for his absence, when there was a knock at his door. He looked up to see a rather diminutive brunette woman standing in the doorway.

"Can I help you?" he asked, a note of irritation in his voice.

"Mr. Bartowski, I'm Hannah Epstein," she replied uncertainly. "I, uh, I'm from the public relations department. Ms. Walker asked me to come by and work with you for your appearance on Kevin and Bean tomorrow?"

Chuck frowned. Sarah was already giving orders? Orders involving him?

"Come in," he grumbled. "I need a minute."

Picking up his desk phone, he dialed Sarah's extension. After two rings, she picked up. "_Viper Security, this is Director Walker._"

"Sarah, couldn't you at least have waited until I was out of the building to start throwing your weight around?"

"_Chuck_…" She sighed. "_You're still the boss. I'm just trying to look out for you. I know you're angry as hell at TMZ right now, and I'm afraid you're going to go on the radio tomorrow morning and just go berserk._"

"If I'd wanted the help, I would've asked for it mys-"

"_No you wouldn't have,_" Sarah interrupted. "_You're one of the most stubborn men I've ever met, and don't get me wrong, in a way, I kind of like that about you, but you never would've asked P.R. for help. Please… just talk to Ms. Epstein, okay?_"

Chuck was quiet for a moment. Sarah was probably right. He was incredibly stubborn, and it would be so very, VERY bad if he went on Kevin and Bean in the morning and just unloaded on Harvey Levin.

"Alright," he relented. "I'll talk to her."

"_Thank you_," she said, and he could almost hear her smiling. "_I'll be listening tomorrow morning._"

"Oh, dear God," Chuck groaned, although he couldn't help but smile himself. "I'll talk to you later."

"_Night, Chuck_."

Chuck hung up his phone and looked at Hannah. "Okay," he said. "So. I'm a stubborn jackass who wants TMZ to burn in hell. Help me."

She smiled. "Alright, Mr. Bartowski –"

"Please, God, don't call me Mr. Bartowski," Chuck sighed. "That's my dad. I'm Chuck, alright?"

Hannah stared back at him like a deer caught in the headlights. "Uh… are you sure?"

"Absolutely," Chuck replied. "Call me Chuck, please."

"Um, okay, uh, Chuck," Hannah said slowly. "Well, let's see. Stubborn, hate TMZ. We need to work with your assets and stay away from TMZ as much as we can."

"It's gonna come up," Chuck replied.

Hannah nodded. "Obviously," she allowed. "However, any time it comes up, you just redirect. You're a naturally funny person, you know that?"

The sudden jump in conversational flow startled Chuck. "I am?"

"You are," Hannah replied. "I've heard you at the various employee functions for the last two years, and you always manage to be funny, even when you aren't trying."

"Okay," Chuck said. "But… I still don't get how that's supposed to help."

"You will be nervous and tense when you're in the KROQ studio," Hannah told him. "You're going to need to relax and just be yourself as much as possible. That means, if Bean Baxter or Ralph Garman says something to make you uncomfortable, you laugh it off. You answer things as honestly as possible, but you don't drag anybody through the mud. Vivian MacArthur, Sara Underwood, Kari Byron, and Sarah Walker – you need to pretend that they are all SAINTS. They did nothing wrong. Neither did you, but you need to EMPHASIZE that THEY did absolutely NOTHING."

Chuck nodded. "Uh, okay," he said, trying to take in everything Hannah was saying. "So… what happens if TMZ comes up?"

"Take a deep breath," Hannah told him. "Take a deep breath, count down from three in your head, and answer as calmly as you possibly can. Be candid, say honestly how you feel about the way TMZ has treated you lately, but do not get angry. Don't insult Harvey Levin or Dax Holt, don't drag them through the mud. Be the bigger man."

"Right," Chuck answered. He looked at Hannah, then at his desk for a moment, and sighed. "Listen. All of what you're saying makes sense, but here's the question – why should I? Why shouldn't I go on KROQ in the morning and rip Harvey Levin a new one?"

"Good question," Hannah replied, "and there's three reasons why it would be an absolutely terrible idea. One: you are the chief operating officer of Woodcomb Hollywood Entertainment. Anything you say tomorrow morning will reflect on the company, for better or for worse. Two: if you're an asshole, that will just be blood in the water, and not only is TMZ going to come after you with a renewed vengeance, but you'll have scumbags like Perez Hilton crawling all over you as well."

"Well, we don't want that, do we," Chuck grumbled sarcastically. "Fine. You said three reasons. What's the third?"

"Sarah Walker likes you," Hannah said bluntly. "And I mean she REALLY likes you. Acting like an idiot on the radio tomorrow morning is not going to impress her, I can guarantee you that."

That was not at all what Chuck had been expecting. "Wait. What?" Now Chuck looked like the deer in the headlights. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"Well, I spent a solid hour tonight talking to her about you and prepping for this," Hannah told him. "And trust me – call it women's intuition, call it whatever you will, but Sarah likes you."

"Trust you?" Chuck scoffed. "I met you twenty minutes ago."

A hurt look crossed Hannah's face, but it was quickly replaced by increased determination. "Go to TMZ dot com," she told him. "Then pull up the article about you and Sarah coming out of your parents' house."

Chuck frowned, but did as Hannah told him. He pulled up Chrome, and then went to the website. He clicked on the article, and an enormous picture of him and Sarah walking out of his parents' house popped up. "Uh, okay," he said, "what exactly is this supposed to tell me?"

"Look at the way she's standing," Hannah told him. "She's standing in a way that indicates she is being very protective of you. And she doesn't need to – Ms. Dunwoody is standing right there with an Uzi, and Officers Cooper and Sherman are both quite armed. Not to mention that, but the way she's looking at you –"

She smiled. "Trust me, she's got it bad."

* * *

><p>"How the hell are ya, Chuck?"<p>

Chuck took a deep breath, and then blew out slowly. "Well, to be honest, I've had better months," he said. "But I imagine there are worse things in life than being associated with some of the most beautiful women in Los Angeles."

"You're right on that one," Ralph interjected. "You certainly are cleaning up."

In spite of himself, Chuck smiled slightly. "It's too bad that only one of the four stories are true."

"How did all that happen?" Lisa May asked. "I mean, you went from a relatively well-known but not terribly famous corporate executive to being a Hollywood sex symbol overnight."

"Pretty crazy, right?" Chuck asked. "Well, in the interest of honesty, I did spend the night with Vivian MacArthur. And truthfully, I was sort of wanting that to go somewhere."

"But when you get splashed all over TMZ and she suddenly has paparazzi popping out of her swimming pool, that makes it remarkably difficult to really start anything," Ralph said. "So… that sucked for you."

"It absolutely did," Chuck replied. "But I guess if it's meant to be, it'll happen, TMZ or no."

"And the rest of it?" Bean said. "I mean, you were associated with two of the hottest women on basic cable, not to mention your smoking security chief."

And for the first time in nearly two days, Chuck laughed. "I think Sara Underwood might be a little more famous than that," he said. "And realistically, all I did was fix her computer. She had a problem with a virus that was eating Windows on her computer, and I took care of it. As far as Kari Byron goes – well, even TMZ has admitted that the photos were fakes.

"That having been said," Chuck continued, "I HAVE been invited to appear on an episode of _Mythbusters_ where they bust the myth of anything happening between me and Kari."

"Fair enough," Bean said with a laugh. "And what about Sarah Walker?"

_She really likes me, and truthfully, she's about a thousand kinds of awesome?_ "Well, she is my chief of security at the Viper, and she's realistically one of the most impressive employees who has ever worked for me – and she's only been working for me for eleven days. Beyond that, though… just friends."

"So in other words, your reputation as a sex symbol in Hollywood is relatively undeserved," Ralph said.

"COMPLETELY undeserved," Chuck corrected him. "Psycho Mike is probably more of a sex symbol than I am."

"OH!" Psycho Mike's voice came from the next room. "YEAH!"

"For God's sake, don't give him any ideas," Bean sighed. "So, Chuck, you must be pretty annoyed with TMZ right now. They sort of screwed you with regard to Vivian MacArthur, and then, they keep creating more rumors that involve you."

"Well…"

_Do not get angry. Don't drag them through the mud_.

"You know, that's Harvey's job. He reports celebrity news and gossip in Hollywood. He works on a pretty tight deadline, and he doesn't always have the time to fully verify information that he gets. And realistically – he thought the whole thing with Sarah Walker was a celebrity car chase, so he had to come up with something for a story."

_ZING_, he thought. _Polite but subtly insulting_.

"So, you're not gonna ban him from the Woodcomb casinos?"

Chuck laughed. "Of course not," he replied. "Trust me, we're just as happy to part Harvey Levin and his money as anybody else who comes through the door."

"Speaking of Woodcomb casinos," Ralph interjected, "I understand you're heading up to Las Vegas later today to oversee the final stages before opening of that new place up there, the Cosmopolitan?"

"I absolutely am," Chuck said. "The Cosmopolitan is… well, it's gonna be awesome. It's gonna have a little something for everybody – the high rollers, the sports buffs, the nerds, the fashionistas – you name it, they can find something there."

Ralph nodded. "Pretty impressive," he said, "but what about for the utter slobs, like me?"

Hmmm. A curveball. However…

"Oh, I think we not only have something for you, we've got something for you to do," Chuck replied, thinking on his feet. "When we open up in a couple of months, how about you and Kevin Smith come up and record your podcast in the theatre there?"

"Hollywood Babble-On, live from Las Vegas?" Ralph replied. "You joking?"

"Not at all," Chuck said. "After all, I'm sort of the boss."

* * *

><p>Four miles away, at the Viper, Hannah Epstein started to look worried. "Don't get cocky, Chuck," she sighed. "They'll cut you down if you do."<p>

* * *

><p>Fortunately, at KROQ, Chuck was coming to that same realization. "You know, after Woody Woodcomb, of course," he allowed. "I tell you what, though – we want to cater a little bit to everybody, and I really do think that opening our theatre with that show would be a fantastic draw."<p>

"Well, Chuck, we'd like to hear more about that, and talk to you some about your previous life, both as a student at Stanford and as a Nerd Herder at the Buy More," Bean interrupted. "Right at the moment, we have to take a break, so we'll be right back with Chuck Bartowski, on the Kevin and Bean Show, KROQ."

* * *

><p>Thirty minutes later, Chuck walked out of the KROQ studios, feeling like a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. There was a spring in his step as he headed across the parking lot, toward Vicki Dunwoody's Ford Expedition.<p>

"That was great!" Morgan exclaimed as Chuck got into the shotgun seat. "You knocked that out of the park."

Vicki turned to look at Chuck – and much to his astonishment, there was a small smile on her face. "You did really well, boss," she said. "I hope this is gonna blow over now –"

"Uh, maybe not," Morgan interrupted from the back seat. He handed his phone to Chuck, with the TMZ app pulled up. "Looks like they're standing by the story on you and Sara Underwood."

"Dammit," Chuck growled as Vicki started up the Expedition and pulled out of the parking lot. "Are you kidding me?"

"I don't know what you can do," Morgan sighed as Chuck handed the phone back to him. "There's no way to prove that you weren't in there having sex –"

"Wait a minute," Vicki interrupted, a thoughtful look on her face. "Actually, yes, I think there is."

Chuck looked at her, an astonished look on his face. "There is?"

Vicki nodded, starting to smile. "Your Vita-Tracker."

"My Vita –" Chuck looked at the Rolex in astonishment. "Of course," he breathed. "I got this an hour before I went to Sara's room. Your computer has my vital signs data for the entire time I was in there!"

"Nope," Morgan interjected. "Too easy to fake. You know TMZ will say that –"

"BUT," Vicki interrupted him, "we CAN have a tech from Fulcrum Systems log directly into the Vita-Tracker and access the raw data. Not even we have access to that, and I'm pretty sure that if the data is released by a major healthcare systems provider, that's something that not even TMZ can dispute."

Chuck grinned, feeling even more relieved than he had when he walked out of the KROQ studios. "Vicki, if you keep this up, I may have to promote you," he said.

"I'll hold you to that, boss," she replied. "Believe you me."

* * *

><p>Chuck Bartowski – Zachary Levi<br>Ralph Garman – himself  
>Lisa May – herself<br>Bean Baxter – himself  
>Psycho Mike Catherwood – himself<br>Hannah Epstein – Kristin Kreuk  
>Sarah Walker – Yvonne Strahovski<br>Vicki Dunwoody – Stacy Keibler  
>Morgan Grimes – Joshua Gomez<p> 


	16. What Happens in Vegas

**May 24, 2010**

Chuck Bartowski had been in Las Vegas for ten days. His office was in the Cosmopolitan; his hotel room in the Monte Carlo. The Cosmopolitan looked completely finished on the outside, but the inside was a bloody nightmare.

_Of course, this is how the Viper looked six months before it opened, too,_ Chuck reminded himself. It was key for a casino to be built this way, and especially so in Las Vegas – it had to look like it was DONE long before it actually was, if only to build buzz for the place.

The casino part of the Cosmopolitan was actually done. The machines and tables had been installed at the end of the prior week, with a Nevada Gaming Commission inspection pending for Wednesday. Chuck's goal was to open the casino itself, along with the Cosmopolitan's restaurants, as sort of a preview event over Memorial Day Weekend. Barring a disaster, it looked like that was almost certainly going to happen.

The hotel, on the other hand? Well… Chuck had brow-beaten the interior prep teams into putting together one display room of each of the hotel's six room types, so that interested future guests could take a look and see what they would be like. However, the hotel's other 2,989 rooms were nowhere NEAR being ready for occupancy.

In spite of his initial trepidation at leaving the Los Angeles operation behind for God knew how long and being up here in Vegas, Chuck was actually beginning to enjoy it. First of all, being here meant that he didn't have to deal with Woody Woodcomb on a daily basis. Secondly, it meant that he didn't have to hear about Morgan being a pain in the ass – if only because Morgan had been temporarily – if unofficially – added to the Woodcomb payroll, sort of as Chuck's personal assistant. No matter how it broke down, that meant that Morgan was here, in Vegas, with Chuck, and far, far away from the sidewalk in front of the Viper. And that, of course, meant no early-morning phone calls from Kate Beckett about how Morgan was distracting drivers on Sunset Boulevard.

Better still, though, was that Chuck had not seen or heard even the slightest glimmer of interest in him from TMZ since he had been up here. Yes, Harvey Levin had definitely agreed to take him up on the offer of having Fulcrum Systems show the raw data from his Vita-Tracker, but that was going to wait until after the preview event. Furthermore, Chuck had listened to Kevin and Bean every morning via KROQ's website, and there hadn't been so much as one peep about him.

Had Chuck been a religious man, he would've been on his knees every night, praising any deity he could think of for the blessed removal of that particular monkey from his back.

As it was, Chuck was currently sitting at his desk, going over some paperwork. He had a meeting scheduled with Alexei Volkoff for that evening – a meeting he was not particularly looking forward to. And it wasn't because he was afraid Volkoff was going to be angry with him about his daughter – e-mail communication between the two men had already cleared the air there.

No, it was because Chuck was quite certain that he was going to have the mother of all Intersect flashes when he saw Alexei Volkoff, and he was sick and tired of flashes. They gave him headaches that took hours to fade, and he was positive that if he flashed on Volkoff, he was going to have a migraine for the next week.

His dad was apparently working on a way to regulate the flashes, but it wasn't ready yet. _He can't be done soon enough_, Chuck thought to himself.

Then Chuck's train of thought was not just interrupted, but completely thrown off the tracks by the ungodly ringing of his office telephone. He hated the damn thing. It didn't matter what he did to the phone, how he positioned it, what the volume was set at – the thing sounded like it was tolling the bell of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

"Holy hell," Chuck grumbled, reaching out and swiping the handset from the receiver before it could ring again. "Bartowski."

"_Mr. Bartowski, this is Larry, at the front desk of the Monte Carlo,_" the disembodied voice at the other end of the line said. "_There's a woman by the name of Sarah Walker here looking for you?_"

Sarah was HERE? What on earth…

"Uh, okay," Chuck replied. "Can you ask her to wait there? I'll be right over."

Without waiting for a response, Chuck hung up the phone. Why was Sarah here?

Chuck closed his office door behind him as he left. He heard the lock click into place.

That was the nice thing about a new building. You could be almost certain that all the locks were going to work – and that was important, especially in a casino. Not that it really would've mattered – you had to get through three levels of security to get to Chuck's office.

Two minutes later, Chuck opened the door from the casino's back hallways, and stepped out onto the casino floor. It was eerily silent – the only thing Chuck could hear was the clicking of the slot machines.

It was definitely ready for gamers to come throw their money away, but it reminded Chuck of something one might see in a zombie apocalypse movie. "At least there aren't zombies waiting to jump out from behind the bar," he remarked to himself as he passed the sports book.

That having been said… the empty casino would make for an epic Battle Royale arena. Maybe, just maybe, if he could somehow swing it, there would have to be an Airsoft battle in the Cosmopolitan's casino. After the preview weekend, of course.

Chuck pushed through the front doors of the Cosmopolitan, stepping out into the bright sunlight of the early Las Vegas afternoon, and turned right. It was but five minutes' walk from the front door of the Cosmopolitan to the front door of the Monte Carlo, and Chuck was there almost before he realized it.

Nobody gave Chuck a second glance as he walked toward the front door. His working attire during the day was not particularly remarkable – a Dodgers ballcap and a t-shirt that said "Browncoat" on the front and "I Aim to Misbehave" on the back made him look like just another twenty-something, and certainly not like the COO of a major casino empire.

He liked it that way.

However, there was one person in the Monte Carlo's lobby who recognized him immediately. SHE was dressed to kill – and Chuck suspected that she dressed that way all the time, not just when she was at work. "Hello, Chuck," Sarah said, standing and smiling as he approached her.

"Well, this is certainly a surprise," he replied as he reached her. "Unexpected, but not unpleasant, to be sure."

"Shouldn't have been a surprise," she said, falling into step next to Chuck as he headed toward the Monte Carlo Pub. "Fourth Monday of the month, the head of operations always comes to Las Vegas."

"Yeah, but not the acting head of operations," Chuck retorted. "The chief operating officer is already here, thank you."

Sarah frowned. That was a surprisingly petty reply. "But you've got to be busy with getting the Cosmopolitan ready for this weekend," she tried. "I thought I could come up and take care of the monthly Monte Carlo business, sit in on your meeting with Alexei Volk-"

"I CERTAINLY don't need you for that," Chuck snapped, stopping and glaring at her. "If there is one thing I can take care of all by myself, it's meeting with Volkoff."

Sarah was floored. Of all the reactions she had been expecting from Chuck, she had certainly not been expecting him to be a total prick. Of course…

Trying to guard the hurt feelings that were welling up inside of her, Sarah looked down at the floor and counted to five. Taking a breath, she looked back up at Chuck. "You're right, I know you can," she said quietly. "And I didn't come up here because I don't think you can handle things just fine by yourself. Truth be told…" She stopped and took another deep breath. "I came up here because I wanted to see you."

Chuck's eyes widened. "Excuse me?"

"I miss you, Chuck!" Sarah exclaimed. "Working at the Viper totally blows without you there! And quite frankly, if I could use my job as an excuse to come up here and hang out with you, then I was damn well going to do it!"

It took a moment for Chuck to process what he had been told, and then a small grin appeared on his face, accompanied by a raised eyebrow. "You don't have Dax Holt in your briefcase, do you?" he asked, a mischievous tone to his voice. "This isn't just a TMZ sting, is it?"

Sarah reached out and playfully shoved his right shoulder. "Ass," she said, resisting the overwhelming urge to stick out her tongue as she strode away toward the pub.

* * *

><p>Even though Chuck had told Sarah that he didn't need any help, he nonetheless spent most of the afternoon putting her to work. "Hey, if you're up here, we might as well get two people's worth of work done," he had said.<p>

By six o'clock, Chuck had ditched the ballcap and the _Serenity_ t-shirt, and had changed into an Armani suit. He and Sarah stood in the elevator, ascending to Volkoff's penthouse on the 32nd floor of the Monte Carlo.

"Okay, there's something you need to know," Chuck said, completely out of the blue.

Sarah turned to look at him. _Uh-oh_, she thought. _Am I ready for what he's about to say?_

But her fears were quickly allayed. "The thing at my dad's house a couple weeks ago," he started, "involved a computer being… well, uploaded into my brain. I know, it sounds ridiculous, but it is what it is."

"A computer?" Sarah asked, with just a slight tone of disbelief in her voice. "In your head."

"In my head," Chuck confirmed. "And there's a very good reason why I'm telling you something that is very classified. The computer contains US intelligence secrets – intelligence secrets that pop up whenever I experience some sort of stimulus associated with them. My dad calls that a 'flash', and they suck hardcore. I almost always have a headache after they're done."

"That's terrible!" Sarah replied. "However, I'm not sure why you're telling me this now."

Chuck sighed. "Because I'm expecting to have the mother of all flashes when I see Alexei Volkoff," he said. "It may be bad enough to set off my Vita-Tracker, so I need you to be ready to call off the hounds if and when the monitoring center contacts you."

Sarah nodded. "Okay," she said. "I'll bear that in mind."

As the elevator slowed to a stop, Chuck began to brace himself. The elevator _ding_ed as the doors opened into a small lobby, the sound perversely reminding Chuck of the ringing bell on the Kevin and Bean Show, just ten days prior.

Chuck and Sarah stepped out into the lobby, and crossed to the door of the penthouse. Reaching out a hand, Chuck rang the doorbell.

The door opened a moment later, Volkoff's lawyer, Riley Palmer, standing before them. "Mr. Bartowski, good evening!" he said, with the false enthusiasm that lawyers the world over practice very hard to perfect. "And I don't believe I've met your charming companion…"

"Sarah Walker," she said, extending a hand. "I'm the director of security at the Viper Hotel and Casino in Los Angeles, and I'm currently overseeing Los Angeles operations for Woodcomb Hollywood Entertainment while Chuck is here at the Cosmopolitan."

"And I can tell you that we greatly appreciate that, Ms. Walker!" the voice of Alexei Volkoff boomed from behind Palmer. As he came into view, Sarah snuck a look over at Chuck –

And was shocked at what she saw. His breathing was rapid and shallow, his eyes were half-closed and jerking back and forth –

But Volkoff did not appear to have noticed. His attention, like Palmer's, was fixed on Sarah. "It is certainly comforting to know that Woody Woodcomb has committed his top executive to ensuring that things go smoothly at the Cosmopolitan," he continued. "And of course, if Mr. Woodcomb has entrusted you to temporarily fill Mr. Bartowski's shoes, then I have every confidence that the company I'm working with is in good hands."

Sarah smiled, sneaking another look at Chuck. His eyes were open once more, and focused on Volkoff. His breathing had returned to normal, but there was a grimace of pain on his face. "The company is in excellent hands, Mr. Volkoff," he said slowly, stepping into the room. "Ms. Walker is unquestionably the best person for the job."

Volkoff raised an amused eyebrow, reaching out to shake Chuck's hand. "Even better than yourself, Charles?" he asked. "I find that hard to believe."

Sarah's phone vibrated in her purse, and she reached in to retrieve it as Chuck continued speaking to Volkoff. "Don't let her beauty and charm fool you," Chuck said, trying to inject a light tone into his pain-filled voice.

_Mr. Bartowski V-T activated. Situation? – Dunwoody_

Sarah hit the "reply" button and began tapping out a text back to Vicki. "She's ruthless in the right situations," Chuck was saying to Volkoff. "I certainly wouldn't want her out for revenge on me."

Sarah's head jerked up and she stared at Chuck, who was looking right back at her. Her fingers went numb, and her phone tumbled to the floor. "Of course, I'm sure she has no reason to seek revenge against me," he said, smiling and turning back to Volkoff.

_Oh my God, he knows_, Sarah thought to herself as she bent down to retrieve her phone. _But HOW? How could he possibly know?_

* * *

><p>Two hours later, the meeting wrapped up. Alexei Volkoff was satisfied with how things were going, and Chuck's headache seemed to have faded. Sarah Walker, however, was a very carefully disguised nervous wreck.<p>

Chuck knew. She was certain he knew. She wasn't sure how he knew, but he knew. And she was scared to death of what he was going to do with that knowledge.

He didn't look angry, though. He looked plenty happy, if a little tired, as they rode the elevator down to the ground floor of the Monte Carlo. "Let's go for a drive," he said as they stepped out into the lobby.

_Oh, SHIT_, Sarah thought to herself. This was it. Chuck Bartowski was going to drive her out into the desert. Vicki Dunwoody was going to pop up from behind her seat and put a bullet in her head, and they were going to bury her in a shallow grave.

And of course, Sarah didn't have her gun on her. That was in her car. _Stupid, stupid, STUPID!_ she thought to herself.

But then, they reached the valet area. "Good evening, Mr. Bartowski!" one of the valets said as he ran up to them. "Do you need your Expedition?"

"Nope," Chuck replied, shaking his head. "Can you actually bring Ms. Walker's car around?"

And with that, Sarah realized that she had a chance. Her car meant she would have access to the .357 under the driver's seat.

A moment later, the black Mercury Marauder pulled up in the driveway. Chuck looked at Sarah and raised an eyebrow. "Really?" he asked, a note of disbelief in his voice. "You drive a 911, but you drove this to Vegas?"

She shrugged, attempting to look nonchalant. "Company business," she said, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. "I figured why put my own car at risk when I can use one that the casino owns."

"Fair enough," Chuck replied with a nod, as he crossed to the shotgun side of the car. "You go ahead and drive. I'll guide you."

Trying not to shake, Sarah got into the driver's seat, smiling at the valet as he closed the door behind her. Reaching down, she made sure that her gun was where she had left it – yep, still clipped to the frame of the seat.

Sarah followed Chuck's directions, and soon enough, they were on US 93, headed out of town toward Boulder City. About twenty-five minutes after they had left the Monte Carlo, Chuck told her to turn off the highway onto a dirt road. She drove for about another five minutes, up a hill, before Chuck told her they were "there."

Chuck stepped out of the car and crossed to the front, sitting on the hood. Sarah was right behind him – but before she got out of the car, she reached under the driver's seat, retrieving her .357, and slipping it into her purse.

"Just look at that," Chuck said, sweeping his hand out in front of him. Sarah turned to look the direction he was indicating –

"Oh, wow," she breathed, in spite of her uneasiness. The entire Strip was laid out before them, glowing in the night.

"This is one of the only things I like about this city," Chuck told her. "Whenever I come up here, I always drive out here and spend a little while looking down on the Strip." He looked over at her. "It reminds me of what Las Vegas is, and it reminds me of what I never want the Sunset Strip to be."

"But…" Sarah's voice escaped her for a moment. "It is beautiful, though."

"In its own way, I suppose it is," Chuck replied. "But it's not as beautiful… as you, Jennifer."

With that one word, Sarah Walker felt like all the air had been sucked out of her lungs. She tried to reach into her purse to retrieve her gun, but she couldn't make her hand move. This couldn't be happening. Not now, not after everything she had done.

"How… how…"

"How did I know?" Chuck finished. "It's my job to know who's working for me. I've known since before I hired you."

THAT kicked Sarah's brain back into gear. "Wait a second," she protested. "You knew I was Jack Burton's daughter, but you hired me anyway?"

"Of course I hired you!" Chuck replied. "You're unbelievably qualified. The Viper is incredibly lucky to have somebody like you!"

Sarah's mind was starting to drown in the ocean of WTF into which she had suddenly been dropped. "But… but what you said to Alexei Volkoff earlier –"

Chuck laughed. "Well, I didn't figure that the daughter of Jack Burton was coming to work for Woody Woodcomb without some sort of nefarious purpose in mind," he said. "But you know what? Woody Woodcomb is an utter, megalomaniacal douche. If you want to take him down a peg, I'm all for gleefully watching it happen."

"I don't… I don't believe this," she muttered. "You actually are okay with me going up against Woody Woodcomb?"

"More than okay," Chuck admitted. "I'm actually ready and willing to help, if need be."

Sarah thought for a moment. "Well… you don't know what I'm planning."

"So fill me in," Chuck replied with a shrug.

"Okay," Sarah said, taking a deep breath. "I'm planning to rob the Sunset Strip vaults."

* * *

><p><strong>CAST<strong>

Chuck Bartowski – Zachary Levi  
>Sarah Walker – Yvonne Strahovski<br>Riley Palmer – Ray Wise  
>Alexei Volkoff – Timothy Dalton<p> 


	17. Of Crashed Phones and Discarded Trackers

_**WARNING * WARNING * WARNING**  
>This chapter contains graphic sexual content and may not be appropriate for those of you with any modicum of decency whatsoever (I was going to say, only appropriate for mature audiences, but it dawns on me that none of us is really that terribly mature).<br>In other news, if you've been waiting for Charah, then holy hell, are you in for a treat._

* * *

><p><strong>May 24, 2010<strong>

Chuck was quiet for a long moment, and the fear of a very rapid exit from Nevada crept back into Sarah's mind. But then he spoke.

"Just the vaults?"

_WHAT?_ "I'm sorry, what exactly do you mean, 'Just the vaults'?" Sarah asked, a tone of indignation coloring her voice. "For your information, Bryce and I have spent nearly two months plotting this -"

"Wait a minute, BRYCE?" Chuck interrupted. "Bryce LARKIN?"

Oh, shit. But, no point in denying it. "Yep," Sarah replied. "He's been the voice of reason all along. He told me that if I underestimated you, I would pay for it. It appears," she sighed, "that he was correct."

Chuck shrugged. "Well, I don't know if I'd necessarily say that," he said. "You would have had no way of knowing that I would be able to access national security databases and thus figure out exactly who you are."

Sarah frowned. "Yeah, how'd you do that, by the way?"

"Sorry," Chuck said. "That remains secret. Well, for now, at least."

Sarah narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. "Well, that's just not fair," she grumbled. "You know exactly what I've got up my sleeve, but you won't tell me how you figured it out?"

Chuck grinned. "I'll make it up to you..."

"How?"

"Well," Chuck replied, "like I said, 'Just the vaults'?" Sarah rolled her eyes and sighed. "No, hear me out," Chuck insisted. "You're thinking you'll get, what, fifty to fifty-five million out of the vaults?"

"I was thinking sixty, but close," Sarah allowed.

"Uh-huh," Chuck said. "Well, here's the thing. If you put Ms. McHugh to work a little more – oh, and by the way, give her my compliments on the trapdoors in the system, if I weren't an enormous nerd myself, they never would've been found -"

Sarah couldn't decide whether she should laugh or cry.

"- but if you, say, gave her a little more free reign, you could probably walk out of this heist with nearly half a billion dollars."

Sarah couldn't help it. "Oh, come ON," she shot back. "Half a billion dollars? That's ludicrous."

"Look, it can be done, and you couldn't be stealing it from a nicer person," Chuck insisted.

"Chuck, as much as I want to make Woody Woodcomb regret every moment remaining in his miserable life, I can't even begin to imagine that he has half a billion dollars to steal," Sarah scoffed.

Chuck hesitated. "Well... you wouldn't exactly be stealing ALL of it from Woody Woodcomb," he allowed. "It's just in his bank accounts."

Sarah's arms uncrossed and her hands went to her hips. "Charles Bartowski," she growled, "whose money is it?"

"Uh... Alejandro Goya?"

"ALEJANDRO GOYA?" Sarah put a hand to her forehead, the sheer volume of disbelief making her head swim. "Are you KIDDING?"

"I'm completely serious," Chuck told her. "He launders his California drug money through the Woodcomb casinos, and it then gets stored in off-shore accounts. A little computer work on Alex's part, and it's yours."

"NO," Sarah snapped. "I will NOT put anybody's life in danger, mine included, by stealing money from a batshit crazy drug lord."

"He'll never know." As Sarah listened, she could tell that Chuck had thought this through. "As long as you cover your tracks well enough – and believe me, if you have BOTH Alex and me working on it, you will – he'll think that Woody Woodcomb was responsible for the money going missing, and he'll be in witness protection before you can say 'Death contract'."

Sarah's brow furrowed. "And why is that important?"

"Why is what important?"

"Woody Woodcomb going into witness protection," Sarah replied. "And for THAT matter, how on earth do you KNOW about all this?"

"Okay, let me start at the top," Chuck said. "You remember a couple of weeks ago, when the agent from Homeland Security paid a visit?"

Sarah smiled. "You mean John Casey, a.k.a. Alex McHugh's father?"

And from the look on Chuck's face, THAT was something he didn't know. "You're kidding."

"Totally serious," Sarah replied. "But what does that have to do with anything?"

"Well, he showed me some evidence that Woody Woodcomb was laundering Alejandro Goya's money," Chuck said. "Then, after I got this damn Intersect in my head, I had a flash about it. It's all true." He shrugged. "And as far as the witness protection thing goes, when I talked to Devon Woodcomb about it, he said he wanted his father to go far, far away, because apparently Woody made Mrs. Woodcomb's life utter hell."

Sarah nodded – and then turned, walked around the front of the Mercury, opened the driver's door, and sat down in the driver's seat. Chuck turned to look at her, but wisely, stayed outside. He could tell that she needed a moment to think.

After about five minutes, Chuck walked back to the shotgun door of the Mercury, opened it, and got in himself. "So," he began, "what are you thinking?"

Sarah sighed. "I'm thinking that this is the most ass-backward con ever pulled," she muttered. "Do you know, when I got into this, I told myself, I TOLD myself that I had to stay distant from the people involved?" She laughed and shook her head. "And BOY did I screw that up. I was starting to feel like the fact that I was connecting with you, with Kate Beckett, even with Vicki Dunwoody was going to just destroy the con. And then, you tell me that you want to HELP, which means that I can legitimately pull this off, the fact that I'm falling for you be damned -"

And there it was. Sarah's hands flew to her mouth, as if she was trying to force the words back in, but it was too late. Chuck's mouth fell open a little bit, and were the situation any different, Sarah probably would have found the look on his face utterly hilarious, but as it was, she was too concerned with the fact that she was utterly mortified.

Slowly, very slowly, the look on Chuck's face turned from one of shock to a very, very pleased grin. "Well, I'll be damned," he said. "So, did this start during our comic book weekend, or was it after TMZ spotted us coming out of my parents' hou-"

"Oh, shut up," Sarah interrupted, lunging across the car and capturing Chuck's lips with her own.

* * *

><p>Sarah and Chuck barely made it back to the Strip still clothed – and then, as Sarah was about to pull into the Monte Carlo driveway, Chuck re-directed her. "No," he said, "pull in up at the Cosmopolitan."<p>

Confused, Sarah nonetheless did as she was told. The way she figured it, the more quickly the car was parked, the more quickly she would be in a bed with Chuck.

There was no valet to take the car, but it didn't matter - "There's nobody here," Chuck said. "Just lock the car, and come with me.

After they got out of the car, Sarah dashed around the front of the Mercury, catching up to Chuck so she could grab his hand. As the two of them approached the front door of the Cosmopolitan, they both started giggling like little kids.

"This is ridiculous," she said, smiling.

"You're telling me?" Chuck replied, digging around in his right pocket with his left hand. "Dammit, where is it – oh, HEY!"

Sarah's right hand had darted into his pocket. "I would ask what that is in your pocket, but I think you're just happy to see me," she laughed. "However... is this what you're looking for?"

Her hand came back out of his pocket, a white keycard with the Woodcomb Hollywood logo on it grasped between her index and middle fingers. "Yes, indeed!" Chuck said. "If you could just swipe it across that pad -"

Sarah did so, and the door in front of them silently slid open. "We've got a hotel and casino all to ourselves," Chuck said. "Let's make use of it, shall we?"

Curious, Sarah followed, her hand still in Chuck's, as the door slid shut and automatically locked behind them. He led her across the casino to an elevator. "The key, please?" he asked, holding out his hand.

Sarah handed it to him, as the elevator doors opened. They stepped inside, Chuck pushed the button for the fourth floor, and passed his key card across another pad. The elevator doors closed, and the car began to ascend.

Taking advantage of the momentary pause in motion, Sarah pushed Chuck against the wall of the elevator and kissed him again. "Tell me," she whispered, "why I shouldn't just have my way with you right here."

"Because," Chuck replied, looking into her eyes, "there is a camera looking straight down at us, and even though this casino is not yet open, there's several people – including Woody Woodcomb – who could access the video feed at any moment."

Sarah grinned. "That just makes it more fun," she said, planting a quick kiss on him as the elevator came to a stop with a _DING_. The doors slid open, and Chuck stepped out of the elevator, still hand-in-hand with Sarah. He turned left, went down three rooms, and stopped in front of a door on his right. He slid his key card into the slot in the door, the light turned green, and he opened the door.

"Holy crap!" Sarah gasped, in spite of herself, as she stepped into the room. "This is huge!"

Chuck snorted with laughter. "That's what she said," he muttered under his breath.

"Oh my GOD," Sarah groaned. "You are a bad, bad man."

"And apparently, you like it that way," Chuck replied with a grin, turning to look at her. "By the way, welcome to the prototype Terrace Suite."

Sarah looked around the room and shook her head. "This room is ridiculous," she said. "I don't even want to think about how much it would cost per night."

"Neither do I," Chuck replied. "But realistically, who cares?"

"Fair enough," Sarah said. She grabbed Chuck by his tie, and led him to the bed. "Now, I need you to do something for me."

His smile got a little bigger. "Oh? What's that?"

She pushed herself up on her toes, and leaned toward him until her lips brushed his ear. "_I need you to make me cum_."

Chuck's jaw dropped, and he visibly swallowed. "Oh my God," he said.

"Yes, you should make me say that," she replied with a grin. "Over, and over, and over."

"Wow," Chuck said. His eyes had gone wide, and he had started to sweat. "I was not... uh..."

"CHUCK."

His gaze snapped toward Sarah, and he locked eyes with her. "I have every confidence in you," she said to him. Then, she released his tie, put a hand on each shoulder, and pushed him backward onto the bed. "Now, would you kindly do as I asked?"

The look of shock on Chuck's face was slowly replaced by a very big smile – and then, he started to laugh. Sarah crossed her arms over her chest and frowned. "What?"

"You realize, something TMZ said about me is actually about to be true?" he asked.

Sarah rolled her eyes, and then knelt on the bed, straddling Chuck and crawling toward him. "I swear to you, if you think about TMZ, we are going to have issues."

"Trust me," Chuck replied, "I guarantee you that I will NOT be thinking about TMZ while this is going on. However, we do have a problem."

"I'm on the pill," Sarah said automatically, "and as long as you're clean, medically speaking, we have no problem."

Chuck grinned. "That's not what I meant," he answered, "and for the record, yes, I am. Nonetheless, you and I are both wearing Vita-Trackers, and I don't think we need Woodcomb Security seeing both of our vital signs going batty at the same time."

Sarah frowned. "Dammit," she sighed. "You're right."

"We can get around it," Chuck replied. "You're going to need to make a phone call, though."

* * *

><p>Alex McHugh was at home. Stripped down to her lingerie, she was entertaining herself by trying to compromise Delta Airlines' security. They'd never know – not unless she showed up at their corporate headquarters in Atlanta with a presentation.<p>

She had actually done that with Enterprise Car Rental a year before. They had not been amused, but they had ended up hiring her as an independent contractor to fix their system.

As she was about to break in, her phone rang. Her concentration broken, Alex sighed and answered the phone. "Hello?"

"_Alex? It's Sarah_."

Alex frowned. "Aren't you in Las Vegas?"

The question was met not with an answer, but a giggle. "_Um, yes,_" she replied, and then Alex heard her say – apparently to somebody else - "_Stop it!_"

_What on earth is going on?_Alex asked herself. "Sarah... why did you call me?"

"_Can you, um, can you – CHUCK! - can you crash the Viper's phones for about an hour?_"

Wait, CHUCK? And crash the Viper's phones? "Sarah, what on earth is going on?"

Sarah giggled again, and then – was that a moan? "_Alex, um... oh, God... um, can you just do it, please?_"

"Okay," Alex sighed – but she was talking to dead air.

Minimizing her assault on Delta Airlines, Alex pulled up a new window. "Viper's phones, down you go," she muttered. "And then I'm getting out the brain bleach."

* * *

><p>Somehow, in spite of Sarah's Army Ranger training, and a physique that was quite frankly far superior to Chuck's – although, she had to admit, his was rather impressive – he had not only managed to get her completely naked – while she was on the phone with Alex! - but had then ended up on top of her, his hands pinning her wrists to the bed above her head. "Let's get rid of these Vita-Trackers," he rasped.<p>

Letting go of her right wrist, Chuck reached across the bed and unfastened Sarah's Vita-Tracker. Sliding it off her left hand, he tossed it on the floor. Sarah reached up and did the same to his.

Wordlessly, Chuck leaned down and kissed Sarah. His tongue darted into her mouth, and she moaned against him. He finally came up for air, and began to move his body downward, as if he was going to engage in foreplay. Any other time, Sarah would have been MORE than okay with that, but in this case -

"No," she gasped, stopping him. "Chuck, I need you right now."

Now, there are certain matters of biology that differ from man to man, including their individual sexual reactions to different women. However, the fact remains that when a woman who looks like Sarah Walker says something like that, the overwhelming majority of heterosexual men are going to be VERY quick to respond.

And quick to respond Chuck was. His boxers came down so quickly that Sarah could have sworn they broke the speed of sound. He moved back up, and as he pressed against her, Sarah could feel how wet she was.

As a result, Chuck slid into her with a remarkable degree of ease. "Oh, oh God," she moaned – and then, to her sheer amazement, the first of what she assumed would be a number of orgasms that night began to overtake her body. It seemed that her entire body clenched, and she was only vaguely aware of Chuck slowly moving against her, the gentle thrusts only serving to prolong the blissful feeling sweeping through her body.

Finally, she came down, little jolts shooting through her as Chuck continued slowly moving, and her eyes opened – to see Chuck looking down at her, a very amused expression on his face. "That was quick."

"That's what she said," she whispered, giving him a smile. "I guess I was just so worked up..." She took a deep breath. "I think you should do it again."

Chuck nodded. "I fully intend to," he said – and then, to Sarah's utter amazement, grabbed her around her waist, and rolled over on his back, leaving her on top – and to her even FURTHER amazement, not only didn't slip out, but continued thrusting against her.

She looked down at him, a slight feeling of awe passing through her. "How on earth -"

He grinned. "Maybe I wasn't exaggerating when I called myself a 'Nerdy Sex Machine'."

"No, you most cert- oh!" she gasped, as his hands moved up to her chest. "Wow. No, you most certainly were not... oh, WOW."

When Chuck's hands moved up Sarah's body, his fingers going to work on a rather sensitive zone, he had stopped moving – but Sarah had immediately and almost unconsciously compensated by beginning to rock back and forth. The way he was positioned inside of her meant that every time she rocked, a PARTICULARLY sensitive area was rubbed – and from the look on his face, she was doing the same thing to him.

* * *

><p>The monitors for Chuck Bartowski and Sarah Walker's Vita-Trackers were going berserk. They had both flatlined, ten minutes beforehand, and Rick Noble was about to pull out what little hair he had. He couldn't for the life of him find a working phone in the building, and his cell phone didn't get a signal in this room.<p>

In frustration, he wrote down the last recorded GPS coordinates for the two Vita-Trackers, and then dashed out of the room, cell phone in hand.

* * *

><p>Vicki Dunwoody's phone started ringing at a VERY inopportune time. She had just descended into the hot tub in her suite at the Monte Carlo, a glass of wine resting on the edge of the tub. Unfortunately, the wine was between her and her phone, so when she lunged for the phone, her wine glass went flying.<p>

"Dammit," she groaned, as wine and shattered glass fell to the floor. She opened the phone – Rick Noble. "Rick, this better be DAMN good," she growled.

"_Mr. Bartowski and Ms. Walker's Vita-Trackers have both flatlined!_" he exclaimed, with no introduction.

THAT got Vicki's attention very quickly. "Oh, SHIT," she said. Ignoring the fact that she was naked and dripping wet, she got out of the hot tub and strode across her room to her computer. "What are the last known GPS coordinates?"

"_They're both at 36.11 by negative 115.18,_" Rick replied, as Vicki punched the numbers into her computer.

"Oh, hell," she said. "That's inside the Cosmopolitan."

"_Not good,_" Rick said. "_That's a fifty-three floor building. How on earth are you gonna find them?_"

Vicki sighed. "Fortunately, I thought ahead," she replied. "I happen to have a handy little tracking device that tells me when I'm getting close."

* * *

><p>Sarah's movements had gotten more and more erratic, and her breathing more labored. She was no longer sitting up, but had leaned down against Chuck, which left him free to start moving against her once more.<p>

She whimpered as little jolts began to pass through her once more. Her grip on Chuck's shoulders tightened, as she felt her body begin to clench again. "Ohhhhhh God," she sighed, as her second orgasm began to pass through her like a wave.

Apparently, that was enough to set Chuck off as well. She first felt the muscles of his chest spasm below her, and then he swelled and began to pulse inside of her. The pulsing sensation just reinforced her orgasm, sending another wave of pleasure jolting through her.

Chuck subsided well before Sarah did, and she lay on top of him, continuing to breathe irregularly, minute spasms passing through her body, as she felt him softening inside of her. Finally, she rolled off of him, lying next to him on the bed.

"Wow," she whispered, looking over at him, and seeing a ridiculous grin on his face. "That... was fantastic."

Chuck didn't say anything for a moment. "Chuck?"

"I'm sorry," he finally said. "My mind is so blown right now that I can't think of anything to say other than, 'That was unquestionably the best sex I've ever had'."

Sarah laughed. "Oh, you DO know how to sweet-talk a girl, don't you, Chuck?" she said. "Keep that up and you might have to revise that statement!"

"I might need a little while to recover," he replied. "That drained me a little bit."

"Feels more like a lot bit, you ask me," Sarah said. "Good Lord, Charles."

He chuckled. "That was kind of dirty," he said.

She grinned, and then rolled over so that her chest was rubbing against his again. "But you liked it, didn't you?"

Chuck kissed her. "You keep that up, and I might be ready again sooner than I thou-"

Without warning, the door crashed open. Sarah screamed, rolling over and flailing for the covers, trying to hide herself. Chuck, on the other hand, just looked toward the door, like a deer in the headlights -

"Ohhhh," Vicki Dunwoody said, her face turning bright red as her gun came down. "Uh, sorry?"

The power of speech returned to Chuck. "GET THE HELL OUT!"

Vicki turned around and looked at the contingent of Monte Carlo security guards behind her. "Let's go."

The embarrassed GRETA Team leader left the room, closing the door behind her. Chuck looked over toward the side of the bed, where Sarah had gone tumbling to the floor, taking the duvet with her. "Sarah, are you alright?"

Her head poked up over the edge, an annoyed look on her face. "Whoever thought that those Vita-Trackers were a good idea should be fired," she grumbled.

Chuck smiled. "Sarah, my dear, that would be you."

"Aw, dammit," she muttered. Then, the look on her face turned hopeful, as she looked up at Chuck. "Maybe... you can come up with a suitable punishment?"

Chuck's smile turned into a lecherous grin. "I think that sounds like an excellent idea."

* * *

><p><strong>CAST<strong>

Chuck Bartowski – Zachary Levi  
>Sarah Walker – Yvonne Strahovski<br>Alex McHugh – Mekenna Melvin  
>Rick Noble – Isaiah Mustafa<br>Vicki Dunwoody – Stacy Keibler

_**Author's note:** I was very, very careful about writing the sex scene in this chapter. The last thing I wanted to do was use crude or pornographic language, because I really feel like that lessens the scene, so with the one exception of Sarah talking dirty to Chuck, I made damn sure to not utilize it.  
>That having been said, it occurred to me that had this been written under the guidance of Josh Schwartz and Chris Fedak, Chuck and Sarah would've been interrupted long before ANYTHING happened, because those two are the biggest fictional cock-blocks of all time. However, they didn't write it, I did, and I thought that after 50,000 words, Chuck and Sarah deserved to have a little fun.<em>


	18. The Definition of All Hell Breaks Loose

**May 25, 2010**

At 4:30 AM, the KROQ studios at Fairfax and Venice were quiet and dark. The only sound came from Dave "King of Mexico" Sanchez, moving through the building, turning on lights as he went.

When Dave reached the Kevin and Bean office, he sat down at his desk and brought his computer out of sleep mode. He smiled as he was greeted by the collage of Kristen Bell photos that covered the Windows desktop. "Good morning Kristen," he said, sleepily.

An icon on his desktop indicated that there were about a dozen voicemails on the Kevin and Bean Afro Line. Pulling on a pair of headphones, Dave double-clicked on the icon, and began playing through the voicemails. He took notes as he listened to the various messages, marking whether or not they were worthwhile for airtime, and chuckling at a couple.

And then his face went very still, his eyes wide. "What the hell?"

Grabbing his mouse, Dave clicked on the track slider and pulled it back to the beginning of the message. "Oh, my goodness," he said, a grin appearing on his face. "Epic. EPIC!"

* * *

><p>Once he had unceremoniously booted Vicki Dunwoody from the prototype suite at the Cosmopolitan, Chuck made sure that the deadbolt on the door was thrown, and swung the privacy bar over to keep the door from being opened by any force less than a battering ram.<p>

After that, he made sure to fulfill Sarah's request from earlier in the evening about half a dozen more times before they fell asleep. "I'm not gonna be able to walk straight in the morning," she had sleepily mumbled as she had been drifting off.

Chuck hadn't replied. He was in a coma-esque state induced by being far too pleased with his life in general.

As morning dawned, the two were curled up next to one another, asleep and very naked under the blanket. Gentle filtering of sunlight into the room didn't even disturb them at first, but as beams of light began to hit the pillows, first Sarah, and then Chuck, began to drift into consciousness.

The first thing Sarah noticed was that Chuck was in a state that the bulk of men experienced upon waking up in the morning. "Hmmmm," she sighed with an eyes-closed grin, grinding herself against him slowly in an effort to wake him up.

And wake up Chuck did. Quite quickly, in fact.

Within minutes, Sarah's screams were echoing throughout the otherwise-empty hotel.

* * *

><p>The joint distraction of Chuck Bartowski and Sarah Walker ensured that neither of them was listening to KROQ streaming online that morning at a quarter to seven. If they had been, they would've heard Weezer's "Troublemaker" playing, with a series of lyrics that would've carried rather ominous portent. "I'm gonna be a star, and people will crane necks," Rivers Cuomo sang, "to get a glimpse of me, and see if I am having sex."<p>

The King of Mexico had specifically picked that song to play before the following segment, and none of the rest of the Kevin and Bean Show staff knew why. As the song came to an end, Rivers sang one last time, "I'm a troublemaker – never givin' up!"

"It is 6:45 on the Kevin and Bean Show, 106.7 KROQ," Bean Baxter declared. "Show Biz Beat comin' up here for a Wednesday. First, the Kevin and Bean Afro Line is on the air. You call us, leave a message, we play it back – 323-520-AFRO. What are people talkin' about today?"

"Well, today is Sir Ian McKellen's birthday," Kevin Ryder replied, giving a signal to Psycho Mike, who hit "play" on the digital track.

"_This is Sir Ian McKellen_," said the voice of a caller, doing a rather poor imitation of the erstwhile Gandalf. "_I know you'll be reading off my birthday today, and I wanted to say, 'Thank you.' And to reward you for such valiant remembrance, I'm going to tell you what I'm doing today for my birthday – I'm going to dress up like Gandalf, and bang the hell out of a lot of Hobbits._" This drew a laugh from Lisa May. "_I can't wait. Good-bye._"

"Part of that guy's night last night was calling an answering machine and doing an Ian McKellen impression," Bean said, a note of disbelief in his voice.

"That's correct," Kevin replied.

"What's that about?" Bean asked, as Psycho Mike hit play on the next track.

"_Hey, I have an instant request,_" the next caller said. "_How 'bout you play 'Paper Stains', yeah! Dum-ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum-dum!_"

"We have been told that we have no idea what you're talking about," Kevin sighed.

"A song like that was never recorded by former intern Miss Cleo and certainly never played on this show!" Bean agreed.

Psycho Mike hit play on the next track.

"_You guys suck!_"

Kevin nodded. "Agreed."

"That's it?" Lisa May exclaimed.

"Agreed," Kevin reiterated. "Now, this next call, the King of Mexico will tell us NOTHING about, which quite frankly, scares the crap out of us."

"He says he wants it to be a surprise," Bean added, "and honestly, I'm not sure I want to know what kind of surprises the King of Mexico has up his sleeve."

Kevin nodded to Psycho Mike, who hit play.

"_Hey, Kevin and Bean, so I'm a security guard at the Monte Carlo Hotel in Las Vegas, and last night, I got dragged into some security situation at the new Cosmopolitan Hotel next door. The head of emergency response for Woodcomb Hollywood busted into a prototype hotel room, and I kid you not, Chuck Bartowski and Sarah Walker were in there, butt naked, and the bed was just DESTROYED._"

With that, the call came to an end. Kevin and Lisa May just looked at one another, astonished, the air dead as the music for the Afro Line played in the background.

However, the shock didn't last long. "Chuck," Psycho Mike began to chant, a grin on his face. "Chuck! Chuck! Chuck! Chuck!"

Before long, Kevin and Bean had both joined in with him, and finally, Psycho Mike hit a button, playing the sound of a chorus of children shouting, "YAAAAAAAY!"

"I think, perhaps, we should have him back on," Bean said.

Kevin nodded. "Yeah, that might be a necessity."

* * *

><p>It had been a relatively productive morning for Bryce Larkin. He had been out to Santa Monica, where he picked up some items that Alex had asked him to get, including a brand new Alienware laptop. He had also stopped by the Santa Monica Airport, where he had made sure that the getaway plane was, in fact, in place and ready to go for whenever they chose to pull the con.<p>

It helped that Carina Miller was a licensed pilot. She would be flying the plane, and getting the crew out of Los Angeles as quickly as humanly possible. That was provided, of course, that they managed to get the hell out of the casino, down the road to Wilshire Boulevard, and away to the City of Santa Monica.

Bryce was listening to the Kevin and Bean Show, like he did every morning – and HAD every morning since their unhealthy interest in Chuck Bartowski had begun. However, for nearly two weeks, things had been quiet on the Chuck front, since he had appeared on the show and been up to Vegas.

And then, it happened.

The call. The Afro Line call wherein a Monte Carlo security guard explicitly confirmed that he had seen Chuck and Sarah, post-coitus, in a prototype hotel room at the Cosmopolitan.

Bryce was SO shocked that his Dodge Ram jumped the curb and took out a fire hydrant.

As he sat there at the corner of Wilshire and 26th Street, Bryce's mind barely registered the water now geysering into the sky behind his truck. "Oh, no," he said. "This is just going to be a disaster."

* * *

><p>The Castle family was actually all at home, sitting around the breakfast table, listening to the Kevin and Bean Show, when the Afro Line segment came on. As the call played, Kate Beckett literally spat out her coffee, and Rick Castle nearly started choking on his oatmeal.<p>

Alexis looked from her father to her step-mother, a most amused look on her face. "Jeez, guys," she said. "You'd think that nobody had ever had sex before."

Her statement was enough to attract the attention of her parents, who both turned fiery glares on her. "Well, I certainly haven't," she hastily amended, trying to shrink back and away from the table.

"That's good," her father intoned, trying to keep from coughing, "because I would have to borrow one of Kate's guns otherwise."

"I'd prefer it if you borrowed a deputy," Kate said, shooting Rick a mischievous smile. "You're an atrocious shot."

Rick narrowed his eyes and stuck out his tongue at his wife. She grinned at him, then got up and walked away from the table, un-clipping her phone from her belt as she went.

Alexis scooted her chair over toward her father. "So, you know this Chuck Bartowski, right?" she asked.

"Well, Kate knows him better than I do," Rick replied, as he opened his laptop and pulled up a web browser, "but he seems like a stand-up guy. This business that TMZ has going with him is just kind of ridiculous."

Alexis moved around so she could see his laptop screen, as TMZ's website came up on the computer. Sure enough, they had already picked up on the story. _Chuck Bartowski Las Vegas Sex Tryst!_ the website declared.

"Poor guy," Alexis said, looking at her father – but he had a look of confusion on his face.

"I swear to God, I know her," he muttered.

Alexis frowned. "You know Sarah Walker?" she asked. "I mean, Kate seems to think she's a really cool woman, and she was thinking about asking her if she wanted to go shopping with the two of us."

"I'm not sure," Rick said. "I think…"

He opened the pictures folder on his laptop, and went digging into a folder entitled "Old Scans". A moment later – "HOLY SHIT!"

"Dad!" Alexis exclaimed. "Watch your mouth!"

"No, look at this!" Rick responded, dragging the picture across the screen.

Alexis frowned, looking at the picture Rick had just opened, and then looking next to it at the picture of Sarah Walker on TMZ's website. "Well… that looks like Sarah Walker, except with brown hair and crooked teeth," she said.

Rick shook his head. "Her name is Jenny Burton," Rick replied, "and she's Jack Burton's daughter."

"Jack Burton – the guy who Woody Woodcomb ran out of town?" Alexis asked. "The one Grandma got run out of town for supporting?"

"That's the one," Rick replied, nodding. "And, I mean, I'm not positive here, but I think that Jenny Burton might be Sarah Walker. And if that's the case…"

He leaned back from the table, steepling his fingers, and arching an eyebrow. "Then, my dear daughter," he said with a grin, "the game is afoot!"

* * *

><p>Vicki Dunwoody had commandeered an office at the Monte Carlo a week and a half beforehand, and had become sort of the de facto commander of the security force at the Monte Carlo, in spite of there being a security director. Apparently, her status as the head of the GRETA Team made her something of a VIP within Woodcomb Hollywood.<p>

That morning, however, she was not really thinking too much about security. In fact, she wasn't thinking too much about the unfortunate incident the night before.

She hadn't needed to see Chuck Bartowski and Sarah Walker naked. Granted, if Vicki liked women, then Sarah Walker would've been an amazing specimen, and sure, every time Vicki thought about what she had seen of Chuck Bartowski, she had to stop and completely rebuild her concentration from the ground up. Nonetheless, it was an unnecessary distraction, and quite frankly, the very clear knowledge of what MUST have taken place right before the break-in – judging from the state of the bed – was something that made Vicki want to put an ice pick through her brain.

Vicki was having a "put an ice pick through my brain" moment when the phone on her desk rang. Grateful for the distraction, she grabbed the phone. "Monte Carlo Hotel and Casino, this is Vicki Dunwoody."

"_Vicki, Kate Beckett_," she heard.

"Sheriff!" Vicki said. "What can I do for you this morning?"

At the other end of the line, Kate sighed. "_Vicki, you have a serious problem._"

Uh-oh. "Okay," Vicki replied slowly. "Is something going on at one of the Sunset casinos?"

"_I wish it were that simple,_" Kate answered, her voice sounding tired. "_No, this is about your bosses._"

Vicki's eyes went wide. Oh, God. What did she know? What did **TMZ** know? "Kate, what's going on?"

"_You have a leak at the Monte Carlo,_" Kate replied. "_Last night, a security guard called the Kevin and Bean Afro Line and left a message saying that he had been part of a team that broke into a hotel room at the Cosmopolitan, where they found Chuck Bartowski and Sarah Walker, naked and clearly post-sex._"

"Oh, hell," Vicki breathed, squeezing her eyes shut. This wasn't happening. She did NOT need to deal with this. A security leak?

"_Is there anything I can do at this end?_"

Vicki sighed. "Yeah. Can you get me a copy of that message? Like, ASAP?"

"_Will do,_" Kate Beckett replied. "_Good luck, Vicki, and if you see Chuck and Sarah, tell them the same._"

"Thanks, Sheriff."

* * *

><p>Bryce Larkin and Kate Beckett weren't the only people in Los Angeles who had been quite surprised when they heard the Afro Line that morning. Alex McHugh had been listening as well, and when she heard the call, her first step was to hack into Woody Woodcomb's computer, and drop in a virus that took his computer down like a dead oak tree. She then crashed Time Warner cable Internet service for all of West Hollywood. It might've been overkill, but it would be a small price to pay to keep Woody Woodcomb ignorant for long enough to allow Chuck and Sarah to circle the wagons.<p>

Lou Palone had been listening as well. Upon hearing the call, she had gone into the service kitchen, where Mr. Woodcomb's breakfast was being prepared. Ordinarily, she would never have tampered with food – it could cost her a serious health violation, and get her shunned amongst the members of the Los Angeles culinary community. But these were not ordinary circumstances.

And so, when Mr. Woodcomb's breakfast went upstairs, his scrambled eggs and his coffee both had small amounts of a very powerful laxative mixed in. Even if the Internet was brought up quickly, and even if he managed to get his hands on a new computer quickly, it wasn't going to matter – he was going to be parked in the executive washroom, the Los Angeles Times in hand, wondering what the hell was going on with his gastro-intestinal system.

* * *

><p>Sarah and Chuck were lying on the bed, basking in a combination of sunlight and post-coitus afterglow. "I could get used to this," Sarah sighed, a smile on her face.<p>

Chuck didn't say anything, so Sarah looked up at him, to see him with a stupid smile on his face. "I think you broke me again," he said happily.

"Hmmm, likewise," she replied. "I suppose that at some point, we should probably get up and do something with our day…"

"Nah," Chuck said. "We just have to make sure that we get the room back in or-"

He was cut off by the insistent beeping of Sarah's phone. With a sigh, she rolled over and picked it up. _One new text message_, it said.

Sarah pulled up the text – _CALL ME RIGHT NOW. BRYCE._

"Uh-oh," she sighed.

Chuck frowned. "Uh-oh?" he asked. "I don't like uh-oh."

"Yeah," Sarah replied, dialing Bryce. "Hold on."

The phone rang exactly once before Bryce picked up. "_The two of you are idiots!_"

"Hello to you too, Bryce," Sarah grumbled. "I'm doing fantastic, thanks for asking."

"_Wait a second, you said my name,_" Bryce said, his sudden alarm overriding the original reason he called. "_You're not with Chuck, are you?_"

"I am, he knows, he figured it out himself, and he's onboard," Sarah sighed. "And yeah, he knows you're involved."

Bryce was silent for a long moment – long enough, in fact, that Sarah thought the call had disconnected. "_Ooookay_," he finally said. "_I guess we'll all discuss this later over coffee. Or maybe cyanide-laced Kool-Aid_."

"Bryce –"

"_I told you NOT to underestimate him, didn't I?_" Bryce demanded angrily. "_I told you that, and you DIDN'T LISTEN._"

"Bryce, what part of 'he's onboard' don't you get?" Sarah shot back. "Not only that, but he told me what to do that'll get us TEN TIMES what we thought we were going to get!"

Bryce was quiet again, but when his voice came back this time, it wasn't angry – it was stunned. "_Ten times?_"

"Yeah. No joke. But we can talk about that IN PERSON. Why did you want me to call?"

"_Right,_" Bryce sighed. "_Listen, I have no idea what's going on between you and Chuck, but a security guard from the Monte Carlo called the Kevin and Bean Afro Line last night, and left a message saying that he was part of a team that busted in on you and Chuck, naked and post-sex._"

Sarah was stunned into speechlessness. How in the HELL could this have happened?

"Oh, fuck," she heard Chuck mutter. She looked over at him, and saw him looking down at his own phone. Wordlessly, he handed it over to her.

_MC guard from last night called K&B – spilled beans on you & Sarah. Dunwoody_

"Bryce…" Sarah paused. "I think I need to go. I'll call you later, alright?"

"_This needs to be cleaned up, now, Sarah. I'll talk to you later_."

Sarah ended the call, and looked over at Chuck, who looked about ready to throw himself from the roof of the Cosmopolitan. "Chuck..." Sarah sighed. "We're gonna be okay, right?"

Chuck looked down at the bed, and then back at Sarah. "Well…" A smile slowly appeared on his face. "I know a way we can make things okay right now."

In spite of herself, Sarah smiled too. "You're incorrigible," she replied. "Right now, I think we need to do damage control."

A mock pout appeared on Chuck's face. "How disappointing."

Sarah leaned across the bed and kissed Chuck. "I promise I'll make it up to you."

The pout on Chuck's face turned into a grin. "I'm gonna hold you to it!"

* * *

><p><strong>CAST<strong>

Dave "King of Mexico" Sanchez – himself  
>Sarah Walker – Yvonne Strahovski<br>Chuck Bartowski – Zachary Levi  
>Bean Baxter – himself<br>Kevin Ryder – himself  
>Psycho Mike Catherwood – himself<br>Lisa May – herself  
>Bryce Larkin – Matt Bomer<br>Kate Beckett – Stana Katic  
>Rick Castle – Nathan Fillion<br>Alexis Castle – Molly Quinn  
>Vicki Dunwoody – Stacy Keibler<br>Alex McHugh – Mekenna Melvin  
>Lou Palone – Rachel Bilson<p>

**_Author's note:_**_ Once again, the Kevin and Bean segment here was based on an actual show segment, from May 26th, 2010. It appears here almost exactly as it did on the radio (up until the call from the Monte Carlo security guard, of course), but since this chapter takes place on the **25th** instead of the 26th, it was modified just slightly to reflect that._


	19. The Major Is on the Case

_**Friends, Romans, Countrymen – lend me your ears.**  
>My dear readers, let us discuss the etiquette of the FanFiction review for a brief moment. I would like to take the opportunity to single out one particular review.<br>On August 19th, an individual – I know not whom, for this individual opted to leave the review anonymously – left a review on this story wherein they described it as utterly pointless, decried the story as completely having nothing to do with the show _Chuck_, and bemoaned the quality of the stories on the Internet these days.  
>That review was promptly deleted.<br>Please let me be clear on this. I welcome input, whether supportive or critical. **When a review actually contains worthwhile content, I am fine with it being anonymous.** I seek always to improve my writing, for I write to entertain and to please. However, if your review is going to be entirely negative, with no suggestions for improvement, then please allow me to just say this:  
><strong>EITHER HAVE THE BALLS TO SUBMIT A SIGNED REVIEW, OR GO F*** YOURSELF.<strong>  
>Or as Rob Lowe's Sam Seaborn said, in the episode "And It's Surely to Their Credit" of Season 2 of <em>The West Wing_, "When I write something, I sign my name."  
>Besides... given that this story is approaching "Chuck vs. His Destiny" levels of popularity, and it's not even three months old... I think the joke is on the anonymous reviewer here.<br>And now, I return you to your regularly scheduled _Chuck_._

* * *

><p>John Casey was nothing if not a thorough man – and he had good reason to be. He had always prided himself on his thoroughness, but it was when he had conducted a rather haphazard and far-too-quick sweep of a road surface outside of Tikrit that an IED had brought an unfortunately abrupt end to a long and highly decorated career in the United States Marine Corps.<p>

Casey could walk completely without a limp these days. Most days, he could walk completely without pain. Unfortunately, the damage caused when the IED went off under his command Hummer had placed him in a disability category that wouldn't even allow him to serve in the Marine Corps Reserves. Since he had, by that point, served over twenty years in the Marine Corps, he was allowed to retire with full military honors.

However, after his discharge from the Naval Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland, he had found himself with nothing to do with his time. Sure, it took him nearly a month to fully explore Washington, DC, but once that was done, he started getting itchy. And that was when a woman by the name of Jane Bentley had come calling.

* * *

><p><strong>September 18th, 2006<strong>

It was a pleasant, relatively cool morning in Lorton, Virginia. A light fog sat over the town, but nothing too disruptive. This was the type of day that most people would enjoy being outside.

But on this particular morning – just as every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning – Major John Casey, USMC (ret.) was at the Sharp Shooters Small Arms Range. As with every Monday, he had what he called his "Monday Guns" with him – a Ruger MkIII .22 caliber pistol, a Beretta Stampede .357 caliber revolver, a Glock M22 .40 caliber S&W handgun, an antique Colt M1911 "Gunnery Sergeant's Special" .45 caliber handgun, and an Israeli Defense Industries Desert Eagle .50 caliber... well, "hand Howitzer" wasn't too inaccurate a description for that one.

With his Monday Guns, John Casey had a routine. Since the Beretta could only hold six rounds at a time, he would set up a target, and fire six rounds from each gun at it. Once the target had been turned into confetti (the Desert Eagle usually saw to that), he would reel the target in, make sure that he was shooting properly, set up a new target, and do it all over again. Casey would do that for two hours, break for lunch, then come back and do it for two more hours.

His daughter, Alex, thought that it was unhealthy for him to spend four hours at the range three times a week, but what the hell did she know? After all, she had campaigned for a damn DEMOCRAT in the 2004 Presidential election. Casey had found that absolutely ludicrous, especially since she wasn't even old enough to vote at the time.

Oh well. At least John Kerry had served his country in Vietnam. As far as Casey was concerned, that made him a million times more a man than this yahoo from Illinois his daughter – and the rest of the Democratic party – seemed to have fallen in love with.

Casey finished pumping .50 caliber rounds into his third target of the morning, and watched with grim satisfaction as the middle of the target seemed to give up in despair, and split from side to side. Ejecting the clip from the Desert Eagle, he laid the gun down, and then pushed the button to reel the target in.

As it reached him, Casey frowned. Usually, with each gun, he would put five shots in the X-ring and one in the forehead, but there was a .45 caliber hole in the target's right shoulder. "Sights on the Gunny Special must be off," he muttered to himself. Of course, the M1911 WAS ninety-four years old, so it wasn't entirely unlikely.

Picking up the old Colt handgun, Casey went through the motions, making sure the clip was out, the chamber was empty, and the safety was on, and then pointed the gun downrange, peering closely at the sights. Sure enough, the forward sight appeared to be just a HAIR off.

Bending over and reaching into his gun kit, Casey withdrew an eyeglass repair kit, from which he removed an extraordinarily tiny Phillips head screwdriver. With the manual dexterity of somebody who had been forced to play the clarinet beginning when he was four years old (and though he would never admit it, still sometimes amused himself – IN PRIVATE – by playing along with old Benny Goodman records), he very carefully adjusted the forward sight on the M1911, until it met with his satisfaction.

Sending a new target downrange, Casey loaded his "chambering" clip – a clip with one round in it – and chambered the round. Popping the now-empty clip, he loaded a full, eight-round clip, aimed the gun at the ground, and waited for the buzzer to sound.

A moment later, the buzzer announced the target was ready, and it turned to face Casey. Drawing the gun up, he rapidly loosed eight shots into the target's X-ring, saving the ninth for its forehead. As the sounds of the last round faded, he ejected the clip, opened the chamber to ensure it was empty, turned the safety back on, and set the gun down.

Casey recalled the target, and as it approached, he noted with satisfaction that all of the rounds had gone exactly where he had aimed them. As he admired his handiwork, an unexpected voice spoke behind him.

"Looks like you could still qualify as 'Expert' on your worst day," an unfamiliar woman's voice said. Grabbing the Desert Eagle, Casey whirled to face her, bringing the gun up to bear on her.

An amused look appeared on the woman's face. "An empty gun will do you very little good, Major," she said.

Casey felt his cheeks redden, but he didn't back down. "It might be empty, but a Desert Eagle can still cause some serious blunt force trauma," he growled.

"Well," she replied, "let's hope it doesn't come to that, shall we?" Casey didn't budge. "Major Casey, you can put the gun down. My name's Jane Bentley. I'm with the Department of Homeland Security."

"My gun will come down when I see some ID," Casey shot back.

Bentley nodded. "Fair enough," she replied. "I'm going to reach into my purse now and remove my badge. I assure you, I will not be pulling a gun on you, Major."

As Casey watched, Bentley reached her left hand into her purse and came back out with a small leather wallet, which she tossed to Casey. Catching it in his right hand, Casey opened it.

Sure enough, there was a law enforcement badge in there, along with a Department of Homeland Security ID, identifying her as Jane Bentley, Director for Organized Crime Prevention, Southwest Region.

Casey slowly brought the Desert Eagle down, but kept it in his left hand, just in case. "Organized Crime Prevention," he mused. "I thought that was the FBI's bailiwick."

"Normally, it is," Bentley allowed. "However, Homeland Security's definition of it – especially in California, Nevada, and Arizona – generally trends toward the organized crime involving drug cartels."

"Medellin," Casey grunted. "Tijuana, Oaxaca."

"As well as Medeiros, Goya, and Sinaloa, among others," Bentley agreed. "And we're trying to fight them. We've already got enough to worry about with Al Qaeda raising hell around the world – we don't need coked out petty thieves ruining our day as well."

John Casey frowned. "Of course," he said. "But I don't understand why you would come to me. I'm a Marine, not a cop."

"That's exactly why I came to you, Major Casey," Bentley answered. "I'm looking for a few good men, if you will. I don't need another agent who thinks and acts like a cop. I need one who thinks like a soldier -"

"Marine."

"Of course, my apologies. Like a Marine. Somebody who would think about how to defend his position against the cartels, and how to take the fight to them, rather than how to enforce the laws."

"Well..." Casey hesitated. "I don't know. I'm not sure I want to go back to working for the US government. I'm kind of enjoying retirement -"

"Major Casey, you spend twelve hours a week at this shooting range," Bentley replied. "You go hunting at least a half dozen times every month. With all due respect, Major, you have no life. I'm offering you the chance to do something worthwhile with your time."

"And that's very generous of you, Director Bentley, but I'm not sure I want -"

"MAJOR CASEY, I am asking you to serve your country again. Your country NEEDS you, sir. It is time for you to answer that call."

John Casey fell silent... and then, a hint of a smile appeared on his face. "Now, Director Bentley, that's just playing dirty," he finally said. "Giving a call to arms to a Marine? How am I supposed to resist?"

Bentley smiled back at him. "You're not."

* * *

><p><strong>June 1, 2010<strong>

Some might have mistaken John Casey's thoroughness for obsession. But those who knew him knew better. After joining the Department of Homeland Security, he had gone to the FBI Academy at Quantico - "I'm home," he had joked upon arriving at the Marine Corps base that housed the academy – and had undergone a crash course in law enforcement procedures. He had soaked in every word, every page, every instruction, and so was now better than Director Bentley could've hoped for – a Homeland Security agent who thought like both a Marine AND a cop.

Of course, sometimes that led to things like the display of (at first glance) utter madness on the south wall of Casey's borrowed office at the LAPD's Parker Center in downtown Los Angeles. Casey had heard whispers comparing him to homicide detective Charlie Crews, which apparently was meant to be an insult.

Casey took it in just the opposite fashion. He had had lunch with Crews a few times, and found him to be utterly fascinating – he thought much like Casey, although his way of thinking had been developed by prison rather than the Marine Corps. He knew about Crews' investigation into the conspiracy that had landed him in Pelican Bay, and he thought it rather a compliment to have his own investigation compared to that of the exonerated detective.

Director Bentley, on the other hand, seemed to view Casey's investigation display as a "wall of madness." "Did you ever watch _Heroes_?" she had asked him out of the blue one day.

"Had better things to do with my time," he had replied laconically while trying to determine whether there actually was a connection between Alejandro Goya and Alexei Volkoff, or if the fact that both were involved with Woody Woodcomb was a pure coincidence.

"In the first season, there was this character," Bentley had continued, "named Sylar. He was obsessed with finding people with special powers, because he could steal their powers upon killing them. He actually constructed a web in his apartment that detailed where various people with special powers lived, so he could track them down in the most efficient manner possible."

"I fail to see your point," Casey grunted, deciding that Volkoff was (probably) only tangentially involved with Goya, at most.

"My point is Sylar was crazy," Bentley shot back, "and your wall looks like his web."

At that point, Casey had turned, fired a glare of death at Bentley, and encouraged her to depart. He then paid a hundred dollars each to a handful of LAPD officers, requesting they do everything within their legal purview to hinder Bentley from entering his office again.

But now, she was back. She wanted a situation report, and as much as Casey hated to admit it, that was part of her job. "So, I see you're still chasing the conspiracy," she said. "Major, I am loath to question your judgment, but I hardly believe that Alejandro Goya is carrying out a massive money laundering scheme that somehow involves TMZ and KROQ."

"I believe that their involvement is tangential, at most," Casey told her. "However, let's face facts: I went to Chuck Bartowski, to request his help in investigating his employer, Walter Woodcomb. That was on Friday, the seventh. Monday the tenth was when the floodgates truly opened on Mr. Bartowski. He has not only been able to not perform his job effectively, but he has been forced to retreat to Las Vegas, and I assure you he has not been able to in any way look into what his employer may or may not be doing in the seedy underbelly of Los Angeles."

"That may be," Bentley replied, "but you're forgetting one fact: Mr. Bartowski's troubles started a full two weeks prior to that, when TMZ caught him with Vivian MacArthur."

"Chink in the armor," Casey countered. "The first shot, if you will. MacArthur is the daughter of Alexei Volkoff, a man who stands to make, quite literally, billions if his business venture with Woodcomb is successful. He may be an unwitting accomplice, but I would not be surprised if Woodcomb had somehow arranged that with Volkoff to metaphorically put Chuck Bartowski's blood in the water for TMZ to pounce on."

Bentley sighed. "Disturbingly enough, that all makes a certain amount of sense," she admitted. "However, I am unclear as to why your chart has a spoke from Chuck Bartowski to Sarah Walker, who has her own ring of spokes around her."

"Ah, yes," Casey said. "Sarah Walker, director of security for the Viper Hotel and Casino, acting director of operations for Woodcomb Hollywood Entertainment, LLC, and apparently Chuck Bartowski's girlfriend these days." He paused, collecting his thoughts. "As you might expect, I performed thorough background investigations on each of the executives of Woodcomb Hollywood, Ms. Walker included. In my investigation of Ms. Walker, I discovered first that she was hired all of four days before I first visited Mr. Bartowski. Furthermore, I discovered that I wasn't the only one investigating her."

"Well, that makes sense, though," Bentley replied. "If she was hired just shortly before you began your investigation, it makes sense that she would also have been investigated recently. I would think Mr. Bartowski would want to do a thorough background check on anybody he was hiring to an executive position."

"Here's the thing, though," Casey interjected. "All of that is well and good, except that in my checks, I discovered that Ms. Walker had been investigated by the Mossad."

Bentley frowned and leaned back in her chair. "By the Mossad?" she asked, sounding confused. "Why would Israeli intelligence be interested?"

"Exactly the question I wanted an answer to," Casey said. "What my contact was able to dig up is this: apparently, the former deputy director for domestic security, who it would seem is something of a national hero, requested the investigation, in turn at the request of his daughter, herself a former Israeli Special Forces operative by the name of Victoria Leah Dornholz." Then Casey smiled, because this was the kicker. "Victoria Dornholz is also known as Vicki Dunwoody, the director of the General Readiness – Emergencies, Tactics and Accidents unit of Woodcomb Hollywood Entertainment's security division."

NOW Bentley was intrigued. "Really," she breathed. "Woodcomb had his personal enforcer investigate Sarah Walker's background."

Casey shook his head. "I truly do not think it was Woodcomb who ordered the investigation," he replied. "I think it was Chuck Bartowski who ordered it."

"What makes you say that?" Bentley asked, looking puzzled.

"Because she still works at the Viper," Casey replied. "Based on what the investigation actually turned up, if Woody Woodcomb had ordered it, Sarah Walker would probably have been found face down in Long Beach Harbor the next morning."

"Good Lord," Bentley said. "What on earth could it have possibly turned up?"

"That Sarah Walker is actually Lieutenant Jennifer Lisa Burton, US Army," Casey told her, "and the daughter of former Sunset Strip casino magnate Jack Burton." Casey grinned. "Jack Burton, who was destroyed and run out of town by none other than Woody Woodcomb."

"And of course, Woody Woodcomb would never employ somebody who was essentially the daughter of his sworn enemy," Bentley finished.

"Exactly," Casey replied. "And I want to use her against him."

* * *

><p>The preview event at the Cosmopolitan Hotel and Casino had been a raging success. Millions of dollars had been... misplaced... by guests at the casino. The rooms had been ooh'd and aah'd over, even the one that Sarah and Chuck had made a shambles of. THAT had taken a Monte Carlo housekeeping crew six hours to correct.<p>

And now, Chuck and Sarah were headed back to Los Angeles in her Mercury Marauder. They had the giddy air about them of a VERY new young couple, the air that indicates that they seem to think they're the first two people in the world who have ever fallen in love with one another. Their hands were interlaced with one another, although Sarah's right hand would occasionally depart Chuck's left, creeping up his thigh.

"Not while you're driving," he said with a smile, batting her hand away while scrolling through the Cosmopolitan's initial profit and loss spreadsheet from the weekend.

She grinned and squeezed his knee. "You lack a sense of adventure."

"I will see your bet and raise you more adventure than you can handle," Chuck shot back, his eyes never leaving the Excel spreadsheet, "but I would prefer to make it back to my office in one piece."

Sarah sighed overly dramatically and pouted. "Fine," she replied. "I guess we can wait." Then the smile returned to her face. "I'm looking forward to desecrating your office anyway."

That statement actually dragged Chuck's attention away from his laptop. "You are insatiable, you know that?" he said, a grin on his own face.

And then, the siren sounded behind them. "What the hell?" Sarah said, looking down at her speedometer. "I'm going maybe three over."

"Yes, well," Chuck replied, looking out the back window, "he definitely has his lights on, and he's definitely staying right behind you."

Sarah sighed. "Alright," she grumbled, slowing the Mercury and pulling it off the road, onto the right hand shoulder of Interstate 15.

A tall man in what appeared to be a California Highway Patrol uniform exited the Crown Victoria that had pulled off behind them. He approached the Marauder, crossing to the passenger side as he did so.

Chuck rolled down the window. "Good afternoon officer," he sighed, not even looking out.

"Agent, actually," said a vaguely familiar voice. "Agent John Casey, remember?"

Chuck and Sarah both looked out the window, astonished. "Agent Casey?" Chuck asked. "What... why did you pull us over out here in the middle of the desert?"

"Mr. Bartowski, Ms. Walker," Casey replied, "the three of us need to have a little chat."

* * *

><p><strong>CAST<strong>

John Casey – Adam Baldwin  
>Jane Bentley – Robin Givens<br>Sarah Walker – Yvonne Strahovski  
>Chuck Bartowski – Zachary Levi<p> 


	20. Don't Call My Name Alejandro

**June 2, 2010**

Vicki Dunwoody did not like having to look for a snitch. In fact, this might have been the worst assignment she had had since going to work for Woodcomb Hollywood Entertainment.

Certainly, it was far from the worst assignment she had ever had in GENERAL – but then again, she had been Israeli Special Forces. Those were assignments she couldn't talk about, for security's sake, and quite frankly, she was glad she couldn't talk about them – doing so would probably bring the old nightmares back.

But right at this moment, she was trying to figure out which of the little rat bastard security guards at the Monte Carlo had called up KROQ and told them that they had walked in on Chuck Bartowski and Sarah Walker _in flagrante_ in a preview suite at the Cosmopolitan Hotel. When she figured out who it was, IF he was lucky, he would only pay with his job and a permanent black listing for the entire Las Vegas Strip.

Vicki wasn't doing this in the traditional fashion, either. Oh, no. She had definitely put in a call to the Israeli consulate in Los Angeles, invoked the name of her father, and been granted almost instantaneous access to technology that she… well, that she wouldn't otherwise have been able to access.

Tracing the call had, sadly, been a bust – the call had come from a pay phone at the Bellagio, and while their security people had been most helpful, the caller had clearly known what he was doing – the camera didn't once get a shot of his face.

Voice analysis, on the other hand – that wasn't too difficult to come by. Vicki had called each of the guards who had been on duty that night into her office, one by one, and mercilessly accused each of them of being the leak. To a man, they had all denied it – but she had gotten recordings of each and every one of them.

The deputy chief of station at the Israeli consulate had, in the meantime, gone to KROQ very early one morning and "persuaded" Dave Sanchez to give him a copy of the recording of the call. Initial analysis had shown that the caller had used a voice modulator to disguise his voice; however, the DCOS had promised Vicki that that wouldn't be difficult to get past.

As Vicki continued poring over personnel files, her phone rang. Reaching out, she hit the speakerphone button. "Dunwoody."

"_Hello, luv_," came the voice from the other end, his accent causing Vicki to start laughing – as it always did. Karl Stromberg was an Israeli citizen of German descent, but he sounded like he had been born and raised in Manchester.

Vicki had asked Karl once where he got the accent, and he had gotten quiet and a little uncomfortable. "I'm afraid if I told you that, I'd have to kill you," he had said softly – and as far as Vicki could tell, completely seriously.

She absolutely believed him, too. Mossad agents did some bad, bad things in very scary places – and Vicki knew that the less she knew about whatever assignment had had Karl in northern England for long enough to develop an accent, the better off she was.

"Karl, my dear friend," she sighed. "Please tell me you have good news."

"_You might say that,_" he replied. "_Of course, I suppose it's a matter of perspective. I guess you could say… I've got good news and bad news._"

Vicki's head drooped. "Of course you do," she muttered. "What is it?"

"_Well, the good news is, I know who your snitch is,_" Stromberg replied. "_The bad news is, it's one of your men._"

Vicki's head came back up, as she smiled and breathed a sigh of relief. "I already knew THAT, you ass," she grumbled. "Any other bad news?"

"_Not as such_," Karl said from Los Angeles. "_Bear in mind, though, you owe me dinner at Angeles Churrascaria._"

"Totally worth it, Karl."

* * *

><p>The security staff who had been on duty at the Monte Carlo that night just over a week beforehand were assembled in front of Vicki Dunwoody. By necessity, they were only the best – all were ex-military or ex-police; most were ex-special forces or ex-SWAT. They were entrusted with assuring the well-being of every man, woman, and child who walked through the doors of the Monte Carlo Hotel and Casino, and were further charged with making sure that the assets of the Monte Carlo were kept safe at all times.<p>

Now, Vicki would grant that technically, the source of the leak had leaked smoething that had occurred at the Cosmopolitan – NOT at the Monte Carlo. Nonetheless, Vicki not only took it as a violation of contract, but as a personal insult.

"One of you, on the night of May 25th, decided it would be an overwhelmingly excellent idea to call KROQ radio in Los Angeles and inform them that you had walked in on Mr. Bartowski and Ms. Walker sharing a rather intimate moment," she announced as she paced in front of the men. "One of you betrayed the trust which you have been granted by Woodcomb Hollywood Entertainment. One of you betrayed Mr. Bartowski. One of you betrayed Ms. Walker."

She stopped and glared at them all. "But most damningly, one of you betrayed ME," she growled. "And in approximately ten seconds, every single one of you is going to know WHO it was."

The men all looked impassively ahead. No outbursts, no rage. _Maybe if I had declared that one of them would deny me three times before the rooster crowed…_

"Mr. Gaez," Vicki finally said.

Not a twitch in anybody's face. "The rest of you may go," Vicki declared. "Mr. Gaez, you will stay."

The security professionals marched out of Vicki's office, leaving only Augusto Gaez in the office.

Vicki approached him, sighing as she did so. "Augusto Gaez," she intoned. "Former Brazilian Army; former Brazilian National Police. Left under murky circumstances in 2003; hired by Woody Woodcomb a month later. Rose quickly through the ranks at the Monte Carlo, even though your service record didn't seem to indicate you deserved it." She frowned. "How am I supposed to trust a deputy director of casino security who is so willing to sell out his bosses?"

Gaez smirked. "You have no proof."

"No ADMISSIBLE proof," Vicki corrected him. "While it is true that what I have against you would never stand up in a court of law, the Israeli government was more than happy to confirm for me that you were the snitch."

"Good for Israel," Gaez replied with a shrug. "But you can't do a damn thing with it."

Vicki nodded. "You're absolutely correct, Mr. Gaez," she replied. "However, Nevada is an 'employment-at-will' state, which means that I can fire your ass for absolutely no reason whatsoever."

Gaez' eyes widened. Clearly he hadn't seen that one coming. "Yes, Mr. Gaez, I suspect we'll have to pay you unemployment, due to a lack of damning documentation," Vicki seethed, her anger toward this traitorous jackass rising, "but you will never, EVER work for Woodcomb Hollywood again, and I'm going to make damn sure that MGM, Wynn, and every other company in this town know not to go within a mile of your radioactive ass."

"You can't do this," Gaez scowled.

"I just did," Vicki shot back. "Now get out of my office."

Gaez glared at Vicki, then turned and stomped toward the door. "You can't do this, _puta_," he spat as he exited her office.

Vicki smiled smugly. "Watch me."

* * *

><p><strong>June 3, 2010<strong>

"_LAX Control, this is Playa One inbound, requesting vector for final approach._"

"_Playa One, this is LAX Control, please continue on your current heading to control point Whittier-Alpha, and turn to heading two-five for landing._"

"_LAX, Playa One, roger._"

A few moments later, the aging – but still nearly mint-condition – Lockheed L1011 TriStar flared and touched down on runway 25L at Los Angeles International Airport. The colors of the country of Costa Gravas swooped gently down the body of the old jumbo jet, with a Patton-esque ring of five silver stars adorning the vertical stabilizer.

As it rolled toward a rather remote and VERY private hangar, two Los Angeles County Sheriff's deputies watched with great interest from their table outside of the In-n-Out Burger immediately adjacent to the airport. "Tell me, Ben," John Cooper said, his attention momentarily distracted from his Double-Double (animal style), "do you recognize that aircraft?"

Ben Sherman looked over his shoulder toward the Lockheed TriStar. "Can't say as I do," he replied. "Weird color pattern, though, and whoever owns the plane is definitely compensating for something."

Cooper smiled. "And why do you say that?"

"It's a jumbo jet, first of all," Ben answered, "and secondly, he apparently thinks he's on a level with a wartime general. Either he has a Napoleon complex, or he is… well, not a well-endowed man."

"Little of both, actually," Cooper corrected him, standing up, Double-Double remaining in hand. "Owner of that plane is Alejandro Goya, head of the Goya drug cartel, operating out of the little teeny tiny country of Costa Gravas."

Ben raised an eyebrow. "Well, that explains the Napoleon complex, but how…"

Cooper's smile turned into a grin. "Call it a gay man's intuition. Grab your burger – we're going to keep an eye on Mr. Goya."

The two deputies got into their Crown Victoria – the Charger they usually had was down for the count with a bad timing belt – and Cooper fired up the old Ford. A moment later, they were parked on the side of Sepulveda Boulevard, hazard lights flashing, watching the hangar into which the L1011 had disappeared.

"Paydirt," Cooper muttered a moment later, as a black Lincoln Navigator rolled out of the hangar. Then, much to their surprise, the Navigator drove directly to a gate on the side of Sepulveda that should have been locked and well secured –

And a young man, dressed in the uniform of an LAX ramp agent, jumped out of the Navigator, ran to the gate, and unlocked it. "Oh, that's definitely bad," Cooper said as he waited for the Navigator to drive through. "Ben, get on the phone to Kate – have her call up the airport police and tell them about that little incident."

Ben pulled out his phone and started calling, while Cooper waited for the Navigator to get about ten car lengths down the road. Once it was far enough away that it wouldn't be immediately apparent that they were tailing the black Lincoln, Cooper pulled out into traffic.

"_Beckett._"

"Sheriff, Ben Sherman. Listen, uh, John and I just observed an LAX ramp agent open a secure gate and let a black Lincoln Navigator out onto Sepulveda Boulevard. We think the Navigator may be carrying at least one senior member of the Goya drug cartel, and we are currently tailing at a distance."

"_That's not good_," Kate Beckett replied, and Ben could almost hear the frown in her voice. "_Alright, I'll get on the horn with airport police. You and Cooper stay on that Lincoln, but try not to let them know you're there._"

"I think we can handle that, ma'am," Ben said. "We are cops, after all."

"_Well, that's a matter of opinion._"

Ben smiled and shook his head as he hung up the phone. "Sheriff wants us to stay on the Lincoln," he said. "And she'd like us to not let them know we're here."

Cooper rolled his eyes. "I'm pretty sure we're policemen," he sighed. "We can probably handle a simple tail job."

"Well, that is what I sa-"

Neither of them saw the Chevy Suburban come barreling through the intersection at Slauson Avenue until it was too late. It blew through the red light and clipped the Crown Victoria, very nearly taking the Ford's front end off as it spun around in the middle of the intersection.

The driver of the Suburban got out, noted the two unconscious and bleeding Los Angeles County Sheriff's deputies in the front seat of the Crown Vic with grim satisfaction, got back into the Suburban, and continued on his way.

* * *

><p>The driver of the Navigator listened to his cell phone for a moment, then flipped it shut and dropped it in the cupholder. "Jefé," he said, "los policías se incapacitan."<p>

Alejandro Goya frowned as he stared at the back of his security chief's head. "¿Incapacitan?" he replied. "¡Yo dije muertes!"

His chief of security sighed. "Señor," he said, "no estamos en Costa Gravas, pero en America. No es una buena idea matarlos policías aquí."

Goya scowled. "Qué cántaro de mierda," he muttered. "¿Cuándo llegaremos el casino?"

"Veinte minutos, más o menos."

"Pinche cabrón," Goya spat. "Woody Woodcomb puede chupa mi verga."

The security chief sighed again. "Sir," he said, "I understand you're mad about this. And rightfully so. Some underling fired your cousin, simply because he made a phone call. But –"

"But WHAT, Eduardo?" Goya growled. "I shouldn't defend my family's honor? I shouldn't come up here and tell Woody Woodcomb that if he values his LIFE, he should think twice before firing my own flesh and blood?"

"That's not what I'm saying, sir," Eduardo replied. "But obviously the police know we're here. This is a very dangerous game you're playing."

"Dangerous games are the only type of game, Eduardo," Goya shot back. "If you can't play the dangerous games, you have no business in the business."

* * *

><p>Lester watched the Lincoln Navigator come into the drive, and as soon as it was near him, he sprang into action. "Welcome to the Viper!" he exclaimed, pulling open the door. "My name is Lester, and I'll b-mmmph!"<p>

Alejandro Goya placed his hand over Lester's face and shoved him aside as he stormed past. Eduardo followed in Goya's tracks as the head of the Goya cartel stormed through the front doors of the Viper.

"Oh, hell," Tristan Ceres muttered as she watched the men come in the door. "Viper-Six, this is Greta Bravo, we have a Charlie-Golf situation."

The diminutive GRETA agent turned to follow the two Costa Gravan men as they made their way toward the elevator bank. Wisely, she chose not to follow them on to the elevator, instead watching the security status board to see what the elevator's destination was –

"Crap." She keyed her radio again. "Viper-Six, Greta-Bravo, the Charlie-Golfs are headed for the executive floor."

* * *

><p>Sarah Walker stormed out of her office, loaded for bear, Chuck Bartowski cowering meekly behind her. "This isn't a good idea, Sarah!" he exclaimed.<p>

"Charlie-Golf is the GRETA code word for known terrorists, and you know that," Sarah growled. "Would you please get back in your office?"

"NO!" Chuck shot back. "I'm not leaving you out here by yourself when God-knows-who is coming up the elevator!"

Sarah sighed, but her expression softened slightly as she looked back at Chuck. "Chuck, you are adorable, and the fact that you're worried about ME is almost as heart-melting as it is hilarious, but it is not safe out here for you –"

_DING._

Sarah whirled, her gun coming up to aim at the elevator door –

_ZAP. ZAP._

Two tasers fired, and a second later, Chuck and Sarah both dropped to the floor of the corridor, twitching slightly. "Candy-ass," Goya grumbled at Eduardo. "Do you have something against killing people?"

Eduardo just sighed and shook his head as his boss stepped over the two Woodcomb executives. "I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE, WALTER!" Goya barked as he marched toward Woody Woodcomb's office. "MIGHT AS WELL COME OUT!"

Almost instantly, the office door popped open. "Alejandro!" Woody exclaimed, a nervous smile on his face. "I wasn't expecting you!"

Goya stared at Woody and smiled, but there was no humor in his smile. "Walter," he growled. "Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition."

* * *

><p>Six Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department squad cars came to a screeching halt in the middle of Sunset Boulevard, followed closely by an LAPD SWAT truck. "CLOSE OFF SUNSET IN BOTH DIRECTIONS!" Kate Beckett barked into her radio as she jumped out of her unmarked Crown Vic. "GET ME THE SWAT COMMANDER OVER HERE RIGHT NOW!"<p>

As one of her deputies ran off to find the SWAT commander, Kate pulled out her phone and dialed Vicki Dunwoody. "_Dunwoody_," she heard a moment later.

"Vicki, you've got a major shitshow on your hands at the Viper," Kate said. "There are known cartel terrorists in the building."

* * *

><p>Vicki's eyes went wide. "Oh, hell," she whispered. "Who are they? Have they made any dem-"<p>

She was interrupted by her laptop going berserk. Her head whipped around to look at the screen – "Oh, dear God," she breathed.

"_Vicki?_" Kate asked. "_What happened?_"

"I think somebody just tased Chuck Bartowski and Sarah Walker," she replied.

* * *

><p>Kate Beckett's eyes went wide, and she turned to look directly into the face of the approaching SWAT commander. "Get your team in there NOW!" she barked.<p>

"Yes, ma'am!" he replied, turning and running back in the direction from which he had come. Kate watched him, then turned toward one of her deputies –

_WHUP-WHUP-WHUP-WHUP-WHUP-WHUP_

"What the hell?" Kate asked, her eyes being drawn skyward.

An old Bell UH-1H "Huey" helicopter came flying slowly down Sunset Boulevard, veering toward the Viper. As Kate watched, it flew over her head and disappeared over the edge of the Viper's roof. The sounds of the helicopter's rotors wound down as – Kate assumed – it landed on the casino's helipad.

Snatches of shouted Spanish drifted down to Kate's ears from the roof of the Viper as she stared skyward. "What now?" she sighed helplessly. "Truly, what fresh hell is this?"

* * *

><p>Vicki Dunwoody – Stacy Keibler<br>Karl Stromberg – Vinnie Jones  
>Augusto Gaez – Lou Diamond Phillips<br>John Cooper – Michael Cudlitz  
>Ben Sherman – Ben McKenzie<br>Kate Beckett – Stana Katic  
>Eduardo – Eduardo Antonio Garcia<br>Alejandro Goya – Armand Assante  
>Lester Patel – Vik Sahay<br>Tristan Ceres – Summer Glau  
>Sarah Walker – Yvonne Strahovski<br>Chuck Bartowski – Zachary Levi  
>Woody Woodcomb – Bruce Boxleitner<p>

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Note:<strong>__ Well, I'm back. Yes, I know I was gone for two months, but that's what grad school will do to you. I apologize for my extended absence, and while I would like to promise that it won't happen again, I shouldn't, because God knows what lies in store for me over the course of the rest of the semester.  
><em>_A brief word about In-n-Out Burger, for those of you godless heathens who have never experienced its rapturous bliss: the burger that Officer Cooper is consuming here – the Double-Double (animal style) – has two ¼ pound beef patties, two slices of American cheese, thousand island dressing, and grilled onions, and is 100% freaking delicious. It pains me deeply that, living in North Carolina, I live nearly 2200 miles from the nearest In-n-Out, in Prescott, Arizona.  
><em>_So, if you do live near an In-n-Out, would you do me a favor, and go have a burger for me? If I can't have one myself, I can at least live vicariously, right?_


	21. I'll See Your Alias, and Raise You DS9

_**Author's note: **__Um, apologies. I realize it's been more than three months. What can I say. Shortly after I wrote the last chapter, I descended into six weeks of hell, during which I had a big handful of exams – finals included – and about 150 pages worth of writing that I had to complete for my various classes. My Christmas break was brief, as half of it was consumed by a Jan-Term class. On the bright side of things, however, I am now on the down slope of my Master's degree.  
>There may be a couple moments in this chapter that are not entirely true to the characterizations as I've portrayed them so far in this story; however, I am writing this chapter specifically to serve as sort of a farewell and thank you to <em>Chuck_, as the last episode of the show will be airing just a few short hours after the publication of this chapter. To that end, I have also made the air date of the series finale of _Lost_ a little different in this universe than it was in the real world.  
>A final note on the end of <em>Chuck_'s completely improbable four and a half year run: it's been amazingly fun. I'm sure I'll continue to write this story, and hopefully, without new episodes barging in to upset the balance, I'll be able to finish my other open stories. Either way… going all the way back to when I wrote _Chuck vs. the Alien_, in November of 2007… thanks for reading!_

* * *

><p><strong>June 2, 2010<strong>

"What fresh hell is this?" Kate Beckett sighed, staring up at the roof of the Viper, where a UH-1H Huey had landed just a moment earlier. "Are we being invaded, and somebody forgot to tell us?"

"Uh, they're yelling –"

"JESUS!" Beckett nearly jumped out of her skin at the unexpected sound of Morgan Grimes' voice next to her. Whirling on the diminutive man, she fixed a glare on him. "Where the hell did you come from?"

Morgan cocked an eyebrow. "It's a long and fairly sordid story involving my parents, a bottle of Jose Cuervo, and the back seat of a CHP squad car –"

"MORGAN."

"Right. Uh, they're yelling 'Get to the boss,' and 'Make sure we get Woodcomb alive'."

"Oh, dammit all to hell," Kate groaned. Drawing her Glock 19 from its holster, Kate ran after the SWAT team that was preparing to enter the building. Catching up to the team commander, she tapped him on the shoulder. "Sergeant Harrelson?"

The veteran SWAT cop turned a weary glare on her. "Sheriff Beckett, may I help you?"

"I think this just turned into a hostage situation," she replied. "A helicopter just landed on the roof, and a Spanish-speaking civilian just told me that they're shouting about getting Walter Woodcomb alive."

"Shit," Harrelson growled. He turned to the officer behind him. "Street, stand the team down… we may need to rethink this."

"Yes sir," Officer Street replied, turning back toward the team and ordering them to stand down.

"Okay," Harrelson said, as he turned back toward Beckett. "We're going to need to formulate a whole new – WHAT THE HELL?"

Beckett whirled around to see Morgan Grimes go charging into the casino. "MORGAN!" she shouted. "MORGAN, STOP!"

"Can't, Kate!" he shouted, waving his iPhone above his head. "Chuck's in trouble!"

And before either Beckett or Harrelson could stop Morgan, he had disappeared into the casino lobby. Harrelson groaned. "Motherf-"

* * *

><p>Morgan knew the interior of the Viper like the back of his hand. He had long since formulated a plan where – if he could get enough of his Chumash people together – they could occupy the casino. However, he had only managed to get five people onboard, and two of them were Jeff Barnes and Lester Patel.<p>

So that plan had been put on hold, but right at the moment, Morgan knew exactly where he was going. As he charged down a corridor, he saw the crash door coming up on his right, and without losing a step, charged through and bolted up the stairs beyond.

Morgan was breathing heavily by the time he reached the executive level, but the text he had gotten from the Fulcrum Vita-Tracker system had told him that Chuck had pretty much been tased. "It's a good thing I made you set that up, Chuck," he muttered as he approached the fire door.

Morgan gave the handle of the door a good tug, and it flew open. The corridor beyond was deserted, but Morgan could hear a distinct commotion at the end of the hall. Dropping to his knees, Morgan did a somersault, and then began an assault crawl down the hallway, as low to the ground as he could get on his hands and knees.

Had one of the members of Sgt. Harrelson's SWAT team seen Morgan in action, they would've started laughing helplessly, but Morgan was just doing what he had seen on _Burn Notice_. And it always worked out for Michael Weston, didn't it?

When Morgan reached the end of the hall, he slowly peeked around the corner. Chuck and Sarah were unconscious on the floor of the elevator lobby, and there was quite a commotion coming from Woody Woodcomb's office.

"Damn," Morgan sighed. He intended to pull his head back, then make his move to get to Chuck and Sarah –

"¡¿QUÉ ES ESTO?"

Morgan looked up to see a very angry Latino gentleman glaring at him. "Uh, me llamo Morg-"

The tazer leads hit Morgan straight in the center of his forehead. The last thing he heard before falling unconscious was the stun gun's distinctive sizzle.

* * *

><p>John Casey was hard at work in his appropriated office at the Parker Center, trying to make sense of what appeared to be a major conspiracy – albeit one that could fall apart with the beating of the wings of a single butterfly. He had not yet heard back from Walker or Bartowski about their plan to take down Woodcomb, although it had only been twenty-four hours since he made contact. The question, of course, was whether Walker would play ball, or if she was so hell bent on destroying Woody Woodcomb that anybody who got in her way would pay a price.<p>

If it was the former, then so much the better, but if it was the latter, he was going to have to call in the big guns, and if he could avoid that, then even more so much the better. While he had to admit that Clyde Decker was a good enforcer, he did not like him or his personal sleazeball of an assistant, Nicholas Quinn, and it would be a cold day in hell before John Casey would enlist the assistance of those –

A commotion outside of Casey's office shattered his concentration, and standing from his desk, he crossed the office, opening the door and looking out toward where a cluster of LAPD officers had gathered around a TV. "_Micah, we're hearing that an LAPD SWAT team is getting ready to enter the Viper,_" the voice of KTLA airborne reporter Mark Kono said, a helicopter shot of the Viper Casino showing on the screen. "_It appears that a Huey helicopter has landed on the Viper's helipad, and has been discharging personnel, who are rumored to work for Costa Gravan cartel overlord Alejandro Goya. Preliminary reports are that they may be holding Woodcomb Entertainment owner Woody Woodcomb, as well as COO Chuck Bartowski and CSO Sarah Walker as hostages; however, Los Angeles County Sheriff Kate Beckett has refused to confirm or deny any of these reports –_"

"CREWS!" Casey barked, causing every head in the room to turn toward him, and one in particular – that of homicide detective Charlie Crews – to pop up.

"Agent Casey," Crews replied, crossing the room toward him. "What can I do for you?"

"You know anybody in the Goya Cartel?"

Crews frowned. "I'm homicide, not narcotics," he replied. "Why would I know –"

"You were in Pelican Bay," Casey interrupted.

Crews fell silent, and glared at Casey for a long moment. Finally, he sighed, and said, "Fair enough. Yes, I know people."

"Call one of them," Casey ordered, "and find out if that's Goya's people in the Viper."

"I don't believe I report to you," Crews shot back, "and I'm not particularly inclined to do you any fav-"

Casey growled and reaching out, grabbed the homicide detective's jacket lapels in his hands. "As of right now, you are deputized by the National Security Agency," he hissed at Crews. "We are conducting a major investigation both of the Goya Cartel and of Woodcomb Hollywood Entertainment. Drop everything else you're doing, and make the DAMN CALL."

He released Crews, who stepped back and glared at Casey again. "My captain will need the paperwork."

"He'll have it. Make the call."

Crews nodded. "I'll be back in a minute."

* * *

><p>There was a five hundred pound gorilla sitting on Chuck Bartowski's head.<p>

Or at least, that was what it felt like. He managed to force his eyes open, wincing at the light, but he couldn't focus on anything. All he saw was partial darkness, broken by a bright spot at one point.

_What the hell happened?_ Chuck thought to himself. _I was in my office, going over the plan with Sarah… we got a call from Tristan… there was a tac alert… Goya cartel in the building…_

_TAZER_.

Dammit. That explained why he hurt so badly. Getting tased was never good for anybody.

As Chuck's eyes began to focus, he realized that he was in his own office, handcuffed to his desk. In one direction, he saw that Sarah was handcuffed to the desk as well – and judging from the bruises on her face, he was pretty sure she must have woken up and fought back while the handcuffing was going on, before being knocked out again. He winced at the sight of the angry purple bruise under her right eye and the gash across her forehead, but there was nothing he could do about it. Anyway, she seemed to be breathing normally, so she should be alright –

A groan from behind Chuck startled him, and he turned over to see –

Morgan?

"Morgan?" Chuck croaked out. "Morgan, what the hell are you doing here?"

"Vita… Tracker…" Morgan groaned. "Sent me a text…"

Chuck sighed. "I knew that was a bad idea."

"Yeah… well… hindsight is twenty-twenty, huh, Chuck?"

"Yeah," Chuck replied. "Still. You shouldn't have come up here."

"Well, I'm up here now, Chuck," Morgan shot back, "and we better get out of here fairly soon."

"I'm sure we'll be fine," Chuck replied. "Somebody will come get us. I'm sure that Kate has a SWAT team coming up, or John Casey will send federal agents –"

"John who?"

_Crap_, Chuck thought. Morgan didn't know about Casey. "I'll tell you later," Chuck said. "It might be a few hours."

"No," Morgan replied, his voice starting to sound a little panicked. "No, no, Chuck, we have to be out of here by 8:00. Actually, before that. I have to be HOME by 8:00."

Chuck frowned. "Morgan, aren't you a little old for you to be worrying about when you get home? It's not like your mom gives you a curfew." Chuck stopped and thought for a moment. "Wait, Morgan, your mom DOESN'T give you a curfew… does she?"

"No, Chuck, my mom doesn't give me a curfew," Morgan shot back. "It's _Lost_, man! Tonight's the series finale!"

Well, that was true. But… "Morgan, that's what DVR is for. I know you have a DVR. I know you set it up to record tonight's episode weeks ago."

"It doesn't matter!" Morgan complained. "It's the very last episode EVER of _Lost_! I have to see it when it airs!"

"I think you're blowing this a little out of proportion, Morgan –"

"Oh, PLEASE," Morgan shot back. "I remember how depressed you got when _The West Wing_ went off the air –"

"I did not get depressed!" Chuck replied indignantly. "I mean, yeah, I wasn't real happy about such a great show ending –"

"Chuck, you sobbed like a little girl during Leo McGarry's funeral!" Morgan interrupted. "You said that it might as well be the funeral for network TV, because there was never going to be a show as good on the air ever again!"

"I was drunk during that episode!" Chuck defended himself. "And you're one to talk – when _Battlestar Galactica _ended, you made such a big deal out of no new Katee Sackhoff 'material' that I had to make a concerted effort to NOT call you Wollowitz – or did you forget about that?"

"I will see your _Battlestar_ and raise you _Arrested Development_, Charles," Morgan growled. "Or did you forget about standing outside of Fox's offices on Pico Boulevard, setting kerosene-soaked chocolate-dipped frozen bananas on fire and throwing them at the building?"

"YOU WERE RIGHT THERE WITH ME!"

"IT WAS YOUR IDEA!"

"Well, if we're going there, let's not forget about your personal vigil for _Alias_ outside of Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner's house," Chuck said. "I mean, come on, a shrine to the show? On a Bel Air sidewalk?"

"It was a good show!"

"You spent two days in jail because of it!"

Morgan narrowed his eyes. "You want to talk to me about being locked up at the end of a show? Because we can do that dance."

Chuck looked at Morgan, confused, and then his eyes widened. "Oh, no. You promised never to talk about that."

"You started it."

"And I'm finishing it!"

"Just like you finished your senior year –"

"MORGAN!"

"- of high school, locked in your bedroom for a WEEK, despondent over the end of _Deep Space Nine_?"

Chuck's face was almost purple with rage. "I swear to God, Morgan, when I get out of these handcuffs, I am gonna kick your –"

"SHUT UP!"

Morgan and Chuck both looked up at the door to the office in surprise. So engrossed had they been in their conversation that neither had noticed the door open, a large man silhouetted in the doorway.

As the man stepped into the office, Chuck realized that it was John Casey. "Uh, Agent Casey, a little help?" Chuck said.

"Help?" Casey growled. "I'm tempted to not only leave the two of you handcuffed, but duct tape your mouths shut! Don't you nerds EVER stop talking?"

Then he sighed. "But, I suppose I at least need Bartowski to help me get Walker out of here," he grumbled. "However, I don't need the little gnome –"

"Hey!" Morgan objected. "That's BEARDED gnome."

"Carnival freak," Casey grunted. Nonetheless, he bent over, unlocked Morgan's handcuffs, and then Chuck's. "Alright, Bartowski, we need to get Walker out of here –"

"What about Goya's men?"

"Taken care of," Casey replied. "Goya's still in Woodcomb's office with him, but the two of them are welcome to kill each other as far as I'm concerned."

* * *

><p>Woody Woodcomb looked nervously across his desk at Alejandro Goya. "Alright, so I'll rehire Mr. Gaez," he acceded. "But he can't work at my Las Vegas casinos anymore."<p>

Goya narrowed his eyes. "That's not what I want to hear, Walter," he hissed. "You hire him back for his old job."

"Not possible, Alejandro!" Woodcomb snapped. "The man VERY PUBLICLY violated the privacy of two people staying in one of my hotels, and that can't happen, no matter WHO those people are!"

"Then what do you propose, Walter?" Goya shot back. "Do you propose making him a simple security guard? Because that is unacceptable."

"No, not that… um…" Woodcomb thought for a moment. "Listen, I need somebody to oversee security at the server farm down on La Cienega. You think he'd be alright with that?"

Goya stared Woodcomb down for what felt like ten minutes, but was realistically only about ten seconds. "That… will be acceptable," he finally said.

Woody was so relieved that he nearly slid out of his chair and onto the floor. "You'll tell him, then?"

Goya shook his head, a small smile forming on his face. "No," he replied, drawing a gun from the waistband of his pants and aiming it at Woodcomb. "You're going to tell him."

Woody's relief suddenly disappeared – or at least, the mental relief did, because he was quite certain that he had in fact just relieved himself, if the warm stream running down his right leg was any indication. "Walter," Goya said, amusement in his voice, "did you just piss yourself?"

Without waiting for an answer, the drug kingpin stepped to the door and opened it –

To be greeted by all of his men, unconscious in the elevator lobby. "_Madre de dios_," he hissed, almost immediately forgetting about Woodcomb. "_Los federales_ –"

And that was all Woody heard, as Goya disappeared into the stairwell. This time, Woodcomb's relief was so great that he actually collapsed to the floor of his office.

* * *

><p><em>WHUP-WHUP-WHUP-WHUP-WHUP-WHUP<em>

Kate Beckett heard the unmistakable sound of the helicopter rotor spooling up, and looked away from the R.A. unit treating Sarah Walker's head injuries. "Shit!" she yelled, keying her radio as she ran toward the building. "Sergeant Harrelson, get your men into that office suite now!"

There was nothing for a moment, and then Harrelson's voice came back over the radio. "_We've got six Costa Gravan nationals, including Eduardo Perez_," Harrelson reported. "_Woodcomb is safe, but there's no sign of Goya._"

Beckett turned back to the ambulance, jogging over to John Casey. "I can call the people at Los Angeles Center, get them to track the chopper –"

"Don't worry about it," Casey told her.

"But –"

"Trust me on this one," Casey said, cutting her off. "I don't just want Goya. I want to totally destroy his cartel." He smiled humorlessly. "And believe me, we're going to destroy the cartel."

* * *

><p>Sheriff Kate Beckett – Stana Katic<br>Morgan Grimes – Joshua Gomez  
>Sgt. Dan Harrelson – Samuel L. Jackson<br>Officer Jim Street – Colin Farrell  
>Chuck Bartowski – Zachary Levi<br>Sarah Walker – Yvonne Strahovski  
>Eduardo Perez – Eduardo Antonio Garcia<br>Agent John Casey – Adam Baldwin  
>Detective Charlie Crews – Damien Lewis<br>Woody Woodcomb – Bruce Boxleitner  
>Alejandro Goya – Armand Assante<p> 


End file.
